Crows in the Wheatfield
by ontara
Summary: After a hunt gone wrong Dean wakes up in the middle of nowhere with no memory of what happened and in a world of trouble. With Sam at Stanford, Dean has to rely on his father to find him in time. Hurt/Dean;Protective/John. Please read to find out more!
1. Chapter 1

_Hi there and thanks so much for peeking in._

_This started as an idea that was never supposed to make it past my own private computer. _

_The title is from a song by Del Amitri – I don't even like this particular song very much but I was somehow captured by the title. But then…it kinda evolved and took on a life of its own. _

_"Crows" is pre season 1, so apparently there's only John and Dean, with all the problems of Sam leaving and the two of them needing to get along... Sam, of course, is always a part of any story, even when he's not physically in it because there's no Dean without Sam and the other way around. Maybe he'll make a short appearance in later a chapter, though._

_The story is based on the assumption that Sam left for college at around 18, the story takes place about a year and a half after that. It was mentioned in episode 1 somewhere, I think, that Sam and Dean hadn't spoken for roughly 2 years before they met up again in S1/01, and I'll just assume Sam had been gone approximately 4 years. I know it was said later on that the two year period was just a mistake in the script or something, but I'll still work with this and hope you won't mind. _

_Oh, and I don't own them, or anything much, period. On second thought - I bought a new laptop just today, which, of course and because it's my luck, is broken, so I'll have to get it fixed again on Monday, which leaves me, if not with the Winchesters then at least with a slightly defunct laptop that cost a freaking fortune – go me!_

_Alright, so…please read and hopefully enjoy and maybe you feel like coming back for the next chapter._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 1**

The light breeze caressing his cheeks and neck was anything but uncomfortable.

Usually, it would have annoyed him like nothing else that Sam had turned on the a/c, aiming the fan towards his face like that but right now it felt pretty damn good, comforting almost. As if his body was too hot and the rush of air brushing over his exposed skin helped him to maintain some level of a normal body-temperature.

The soft, rustling noise accompanying the movement of air was a lulling cadence, kept his mind geared low, in a state between being asleep and barely awake, locking him inside that feeling of safety and care-freeness and peace that he barely remembered feeling, ever, when fully awake anymore.

Not even when deeply asleep, come to think of it. Peace and safe and free words so foreign to him lately, they could as well have belonged to another language, say, Ukrainian, for example, or Swahili. One he didn't speak that was, so he had a pretty free pick, really.

Dean thought he hadn't felt the kind of freedom that he was feeling right this moment for a very, very long time now. Almost a lifetime. And while that knowledge alone should have disturbed him more than anything his peace-drugged brain couldn't even get itself to care one tiny bit.

And he couldn't, for the life of him, remember why he should be scared or worried or why he should fret and even care to get up and move. So there really was no hurry.

Dean just lay there, on his back, the ground beneath him kinda soft and slightly damp, smelling musky and cool.

He took in a breath, then another, breathed in the smell of earth and again it didn't worry him in the slightest that he'd be lying on the bare ground, no idea where exactly that might be, no idea how he'd gotten there. It felt strangely like home, strangely comforting yet again, his body almost welcomed by the earth and so he chose to revel in the feeling of comfort a little longer.

Just a little longer.

His muscles were heavy and tired, unwilling to move, even if he'd had found the strength or the will to try.

Just rest.

Something brushed against his cheek, something coarse and scratchy, grazing his skin with the faintest of touches but he didn't even twitch, didn't move one finger to brush it away or find out what it might be.

The rustling around him shifted, the formerly erratic sound morphing into a rhythm, picking up a cadence that resembled music, almost. The faint, distorted sounds gradually cleared into the slightly distorted notes of a violin, a cello…a soft, low drum. The melody sounded vaguely familiar, like he'd heard it sometime not too long ago, but he couldn't really place it yet. Definitely not some kind of music he'd listen to usually, not one of his rock-songs or some of that emo-stuff Sam would occasionally shove into the tape deck of the Impala when he'd won one of their stupid bets and got to choose the music for a couple of miles on the road. Not one of dad's country stuff either, like John Denver or even Johnny Cash. God, dad loved Johnny Cash.

And Dean had always had that weird picture in his head of his mom and dad dancing to one of his songs, always saw them arm in arm in their kitchen back in Lawrence…

The thought was beautiful at the same time as it was painful.

But this music now…it was nothing like that. And even though the music wouldn't make it onto Dean's playlist anytime soon, it had some kind of soothing pull to it, like that song his mom used to sing to him when he was still a toddler, insisting that he wasn't tired yet succumbing to sleep after only a minute or two of her voice singing him to sleep.

As if on cue, he thought he heard a hoarse, wailing voice sound out over the music then, far away and in a language Dean didn't understand, but he didn't need to. The mere sound, the weight of it transpiring so much misery and pain, Dean felt his heart thump painfully in his chest once, drop a little before picking up its low, slow rhythm again. But the heaviness had returned, that familiar weight resting on him and inside of him, ever present, never leaving him completely anymore. Not for as long as he could think. Unless you counted the past…what had it been? - couple of minutes, maybe, not much more, probably.

He had to get up. Something in his heart told him that.

But maybe he'd start with opening his eyes, figure out who was singing so heartbreakingly, figure out a way to help her. That or stop her, because he'd felt really content in just lying here, not moving.

Sleeping. Possibly forever.

Something was wrong with that.

But first things first.

His eyes opened slowly, like the lids had been glued together with superglue and he instantly remembered that one time when he'd glued two of Sammy's fingers together because of some sort of prank war they'd gotten into again. That hadn't really been a very smart idea, he had to admit that, especially not since they'd been on the way to hunt that nasty revenant and Sammy had ended up having to wait in the car because he couldn't hold on to his shotgun let alone shoot it with his thumb glued to his middle- and ring-finger.

God, Dean had had to clean all their weapons for a month after, dad had been so pissed.

But the memory still made Dean smile.

But smiling somehow didn't work, something hard and unyielding immobilized the left side of his face, making any facial movement close to impossible. Alright, so no smiling then.

Dean worked on prying his lids open, actually succeeding, which surprised him somewhat. Ok, so it was only a slit and only his right eye that finally followed the orders his brain sent its way, but he had to take whatever he could get.

He squinted up, blinking his one eye, working it open farther and farther in the process, finding his range of vision widening gradually. For a couple of minutes he didn't know if the sight before him should relieve or worry him. First off, it took him a while to register his surroundings.

So, he was lying on the ground, that much had been clear before, on the bare ground to be exact - no surprise there either. All around him, swaying gently, an almost sickening swirl of greenish-beige stalks of corn or wheat, some sort of grain, from the look of it. The movement was lulling again, the swish and sound of the stalks swaying in the breeze soothing beyond anything Dean had ever experienced.

Sam would love this, Dean thought slightly amused, would first off know what kind of grain it was – and would find some highly poetic words to describe the whole setting, too - always the literate geek boy.

Again an attempt to smile was halted by that annoying substance coating the left side of his face.

With a tremendous amount of effort Dean brought up his left arm, dropping strangely numb fingers onto his face far too heavily, wincing as he basically slapped himself in the process before starting to rub and peel at his eye a bit, working to brush off what felt like dried mud sticking to his skin and hair. After a couple of minutes and his hand slapping him almost senseless two more times he finally succeeded in prying his second eye open as well.

The grain stalks around him were more pronounced now, not as blurry anymore, even though his left eye did have some trouble focusing for any longer period of time. Concussion, most likely, even though he didn't feel a thing right at the moment. But the symptoms fit. Unfortunately, he knew as much.

And still he couldn't really get himself to panic, even though the feeling of dread that had been starting to creep over him did increase another notch or two. Should he be in pain? If it was a concussion, he definitely should be. But who was he to complain, really?

He had to be lying in a field, the stalks so high, they almost blocked out the sky above him. Every once in a while, when the wind shifted the grain to reveal slits of blue above him he realized that it was bright daylight, the sky a deep cerulean blue, small snippets of clouds blocking out the sun right now even though it had to be somewhere to his right, judging from the light filtering through a thicker set of clouds there.

He seemed to be lying in a ditch, or a walk- or driveway between the stalks that was about as wide as his body. His shoulders already brushed against the stems surrounding him but he clearly wasn't resting on top of anything other than earth and maybe a couple of tiny pebbles at the moment. His body was still numb, somehow, weightless and yet too heavy to move or shift and he wasn't even able to do as much as turn his head to the side.

But the music was still there, the woman's voice too.

Damn, he had to go find her. She sounded like she was going to throw herself off a bridge or something any minute now.

It was then that he noticed the birds circling lazily in the sky above him. There were about two or three of them, circling low over the field, the beat of their wings sending new gusts of wind over Dean's face, descending lower and lower with each circle they drew in the now bright blue sky above him.

He stared at them dumbly for a second or two. His eyes were wide open now, blinking sluggishly in time with the beats of their wings, watching in rapt fascination as they drew closer and closer until he could make out the almost bluish-black oily sheen of their feathers, the small, beady black eyes, the long sharp beaks.

Crows.

Or ravens.

Whatever. Once again – Sam would know the difference.

One of the big birds detached itself from the group and sank down upon him rapidly. It wasn't till it was basically in his face that Dean finally managed to snap his eyes away from the strangely riveting sight and turn his head, his body still too heavy, still caught in a strange paralysis that didn't allow him to move away at all.

With one last flap of its wings the crow landed next to Dean's shoulder, right in front of his face, the tips of its huge black feathers brushing over his face lightly, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he was able to reopen them again.

Dean found himself eye to eye with the bird, the space between the rows of grain too small to allow either of them much personal space, but for some reason the close proximity of the wild animal didn't perturb Dean in the slightest. On the contrary, he found himself almost curiously gazing into the birds pitch black eye, found himself fascinated by its muscular body, the shiny feathers, the talon-like claws digging into the soft earth underneath its feet.

The bird tipped its head to the side, eying Dean so intently he would have flinched or jerked back under normal circumstances. There was something there, if he looked beyond his own reflection in the birds jet-black orbs, something that sent an involuntary shiver down Dean's spine. The animal's eye seemed almost human, it's gaze piercing, slicing deeply into his soul, prying, searching…

It took a step closer still, its long, dark beak covered about halfway down with soft, downy feathers that were just as black as the rest of its feathering, Dean realized. Its legs were not completely black but dark grey, its pitch dark pupils surrounded by a slightly lighter shade of brown.

Dean felt himself shudder, all of a sudden, felt the breeze suddenly chilling him uncomfortably. The feathers on the bird's chest ruffled slightly with the gust of wind and for a second the crow seemed to grow, expand before his eyes. Dean blinked in confusion, still unable to look away, to fucking turn his head and look somewhere else, to figure out what the hell this was all about.

Figure out why the hell his body felt too heavy and yet light at the same time, the way he didn't feel anything, nothing, not even the cold or the apparent dampness of the earth underneath his body, no worry, no pain…

Something was wrong.

He blinked, brought the bird into focus again, its eyes still on Dean as if the human lying there in a field of grain was the most interesting thing the animal had ever seen. As if he had waited for him, had expected him and was now contemplating what to do next.

The next step the crow took brought it so close, it slipped out of focus and in Dean's muddled brain the animal changed from bird to monster within the beat of a second, its eyes suddenly glowing a deep, rich yellow, its body growing and expanding impossibly right before his eyes. The crow opened it's beak, gave a loud, gravelly croak, so close to Dean's ears, so loud, he couldn't help but close his eyes in surprise, in disgust.

Because that was when the smell hit him, the smell of blood and decay that emanated from the animals beak, washing over him like a tidal wave of gagging odour. Carrion eaters, that's what they were, picking flesh off bones, ravaging bodies long dead…

Dean tried to shuffle away then, for the first time in what seemed like minutes now the urge to _move_, to get up and away overriding his need to stay put, to lie here and just rest, never move again. It wasn't fear of the animal, per se, more like an overall sense of urgency, of wrong. Like a warning the bird sent him, challenging him to move, to get up and get away from here.

Only Dean's body didn't seem to want to obey the commands his brain was trying to send its way and he merely managed to blink, roll his head weakly on the soft ground, managing to break eye contact with an almost audible snap as the connection broke, staring up at the sky again.

His breathing quickened, expanding his chest in a sickening pace as he saw the two remaining crows still circling overhead, the birds either drawing closer or blocking the sunlight for suddenly the light seemed to dim all around him, casting him into shadow.

With the shadow came a picture, too quick and too faint to grasp it, the flash of something darker than the night itself, of something deep red, then a snipped of bright white before pain hit with a force so blinding, so fierce, Dean screamed. His whole body went rigid as a wave of agony washed over him, drowning out all other thought, all other sound, all other color, dipping his world first in bright white then dark red, and then pitch black as the ground dropped from underneath him, sending him plummeting into darkness.

OoOoOoO

Tbc

_AN:_

_OK, so…I'm not very good at this, still awfully nervous, so I'll make it short. I'll clear up what exactly happened to Dean, don't worry, but you'll have to come back for that (and I hope you will). _

_Apparently, the first chapter was a little bit inspired by a certain movie scene, but the music and the singing will all be explained in later chapters, I promise. It will (hopefully) all make sense for you as well… ;-)_

_Oh, and I love crows, I swear I do. They are beautiful and wonderful birds and I will redeem them in later chapters if they seem a bit evil. I just borrow a little from mythology here…_

_I never post without having at least a couple of chapter in store already, so don't be afraid that I won't continue or finish this - if you want me to, that is. The rough draft is pretty much done already (Doesn't mean I won't change something as I go along, though…)_

_Please, make my day and let me know if this is worth continuing at all. If its any incentive, maybe – tomorrow is my birthday. I'm turning very old and need the reassurance to not fall into am early midlife-crisis ;-) _

_Alright – thanks for reading and special hugs to all those who take the very short time to leave me a review._

_Take care! _


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all so much for coming back to read chapter 2 - and to those just starting on this...I hope you enjoy._

_I still dont own them, but all mistakes in spelling and/or grammar will be mine entirely! Hope it's not too bad, though..._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 2**

John was pacing the room, peering at his watch for about the 150th time in the last hour or so. He got it, he really did. He had learned his fucking lesson.

It hadn't been the first time that an argument with one of his sons had gotten a little out of hand, he'd certainly had his fair share with Sam, back in the days. But fights with Dean had been less…frequent, and usually less intense. Dean had been trained too well, had been conditioned to listen to his father's commands and swallow down his own opinion with a stoicism that even John had come to respect and sometimes wonder about. He knew it wasn't the healthy way to handle things, knew that everybody needed an outlet, a way to let of steam. It was just so much easier on his own nerves, so much easier to deal with…

It had always had been Dean's MO to escape for a while, get things out of his system elsewhere and then return, focused and head straight on his shoulders again. Sam was – had been the one to _talk things out_, or rather _talk things to death, _and John had always thought that it wasn't one of his youngest' best trades. Like a pit-bull - once he'd locked his jaw into something, he wasn't very likely to let go again.

But since Sam was gone, all bets seemed to be off with his eldest, too. Dean had gotten slightly more unreasonable since his brother had left, gradually getting worse, as a matter of fact. He'd gotten more…testy, was more easily irritated by seemingly completely benign comments from his father that had him spinning out of control.

But, if he was just a little honest with himself, John had to admit that, maybe, he hadn't been the most stable person to begin with himself. They'd been traipsing around each other like two caged tigers for months now, dormant for the time being but simply biding their time till they could unleash all those pent up emotions…let it all go.

Sam leaving had shaken them both, in ways John had never thought possible, and he certainly hadn't counted on his oldest son, his soldier, his constant, to become even harder to read, somewhat harder to control, even.

So, yeah, they'd been riled to an extend that had called for one of them blowing up, all that tension and anger and worry bound to burst out in the open at some point, John knew that. Had also known that Dean would storm off, grab his jacket and get out of the shabby motel they'd stayed in, walk to that bar down the road, maybe leave with a woman after. He might even have counted on it, to be honest, counted on his son to unwind himself after weeks and months spent in deafening silence.

What he hadn't counted on was Dean not coming back.

John hadn't been worried when he'd gone to bed at around midnight and Dean hadn't found his way back home. He hadn't even been overly concerned when he'd gotten up at around 4 o clock to go to the bathroom and his son's bed had still been empty.

The first time he'd had a notion that something might be wrong was when he'd finally gotten up at around 9 in the morning and Dean still hadn't come back, hadn't left a message on John's cell either. The feeling of unease had been turned up another notch when he'd looked out into the parking lot and found the Impala not where they'd left it last night when coming back from the hunt. It had been there the night before, right in front of their room and Dean had taken off on foot since he'd never, ever, drive when intoxicated. Not when it could be helped, at least.

So he had come back at some point during the night and then taken off again?

And since John's truck sat some three states away, at a garage to be serviced for the duration of this hunt, John was even more pissed because Dean taking off with their only means of transportation was just the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak.

That was when he had started calling his son's cell.

After about a dozen calls that were left unanswered and just got forwarded to Dean's voicemail time and time again, John finally pushed past the feeling of being pissed, passing _slightly _worried without as much as a backward glance and went straight for _very_ worried, bordering on a _little_ panicked. Because this just wasn't Dean's MO. Even pissed and holed up somewhere with a bottle of Tequila and/or a woman, Dean would draw the line at staying away over night without calling, without at least picking up when his father called.

At first, John had just called every ten to fifteen minutes or so, too pissed to leave messages, too proud to show his son just how worried he really was. He'd given up on his ego and started leaving messages after call six or seven and didn't bother stopping until about 15 minutes ago when he'd just started dialling and redialling on autopilot, waiting till the voicemail kicked in, barking in "_call me, Dean, the minute you get this" _then waiting a minute before trying again.

Now it was now almost 10.30h and still there was no sign of his son.

He'd have gone to the bar he was sure Dean had at least visited at some point last night, only that it was still closed, he'd checked with the motel's front desk, so there was no use in trying that till the early afternoon when it would reopen.

John had never felt as out of his depth as right now.

Dean better had a really, really good excuse.

But John knew, deep down in his guts, that something was wrong.

Dean would not just take off on him like that, he simply wouldn't. No matter how pissed, Dean would always remember that it was most important to stick together, to keep his hunting partner informed of his whereabouts. Hell, Dean was the one always going on and on and on about being a _team_ and a _family _and thatfamily needed to stick together.

He simply wouldn't do this.

John snapped his phone open again to give his son another call.

If he didn't have a really good explanation for this, Dean would be stuck with laundry-duty for the next year to be sure.

OoOoOoO

The music was low but insistent, drifting to him through layers of fog, the sound dull and far off, yet nagging and infuriating at the same time. It had been there for quite a while now, on and off, but so far Dean had been able to ignore it successfully, had managed to shut his mind off and stay in a state closely enough resembling sleep for him to live with it.

Slowly but surely, it became too much, though.

He cursed Sam under his breath, cursed him for turning on the TV or the radio, not caring if it would wake Dean up in the process. That was just so typical Sam…just because he was an early riser Dean had to suffer along with him. It really wasn't fair. Plus, Dean had the distinct feeling that he'd had a hell of a night…a hell of a couple of nights, judging from the way his head felt as if it was throbbing and pounding, his eyes expanding behind closed eyelids until he thought they'd explode out of their sockets any second now.

They'd been on a hunt last night…or so he thought, at least that's what he felt like. Like he'd been on a hunt where he'd been banged around his fair share, probably been thrown into a tree or gravestone or wall…it was a free pick, really. Right at the moment he couldn't quite come up with the current choice of object he'd been pounced against, couldn't even come up with the monster of the week they'd been hunting, but it didn't matter really. All he knew was that it was way too early to get up, no matter what was the time of day right now, no matter how annoyingly chipper and rested Sam was.

Dean wanted to sleep. And he had every intention of enforcing that wish – no, that _right_ with all means necessary.

Only that Sam seemed to be insistent enough all by his annoying little self.

When the music stopped after half a minute or so Dean sighed, attempted to roll over and bury his face in the pillow, drag the blanket up over his head and stay buried like this till the next morning. Only, rolling over didn't work. There was a heavy and oppressing weight seemingly crushing him, pressing him further and further into the mattress, making rolling over impossible.

Ok then…this should be a tad disconcerting, but Dean thought he'd be able to deal with that. If his body told him to stay put, he wasn't going to question it. The pressure on his chest and abdomen didn't ease off but already Dean could feel the hungry fingers of sleep clawing for him, attempting to pull him under and he again sighed, allowing his mind to drift once more.

It was barely a minute later though that suddenly the music started blaring again, way too close to his head, way too loud, the sound not nearly as dull and muffled as before.

Sam, goddamnit.

A memory wafted over him, of violins and celli, a female voice wailing, but it was gone as fast as it had entered his mind. Instead, the music playing now was drumming, louder and very familiar indeed.

_Highway to hell_…the first couple of lines of the song, right before the lyrics started.

Huh now…that somehow sounded familiar…like…it should trigger something…some sort of action – or reaction.

While Dean still tried to entangle his somewhat sleep-muddled thoughts, the music once again stopped.

Now, that was about the most annoying thing to be sure, this turning the music on and off on such a regular basis instead of just letting it play for good. That way, he'd at least bee able to fall asleep again, or so he thought, instead of being ripped out of it time and time again when it started anew.

This time, Dean concentrated, or at least tried to, wanting to stay alert and semi-aware long enough to figure out what exactly was going on. There was some kind of pattern here, something that should tell him something, should make him aware. The only problem was that he had one hell of a hard time figuring out what exactly was bothering him so much – besides the fact that Sam was an asshole that had no consideration whatsoever of his brother's need for sleep.

It took two more times of the by now annoying as hell song that had once been one of his favorites that he finally was able to piece it together.

His phone…it was his phone. His phone ringing, to be exact, and judging from the song, it was either Sam or dad calling him. Now the only question that remained was, why the hell either one of them would be calling him if they were in the room with him. Which, sure enough they would be. Dean couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept in a room separate from brother and father. They'd usually rent those crammed family-rooms to save money, which left them with three queens in the best of cases – with only one queen and one king if bad things got even worse. And even on the few occasion that they'd rent a small house or apartment, he'd always share a room with Sam.

All to save money.

Damn annoying, that's what it was, a man of 24 having to share a room with his kid-brother, but he'd somehow gotten used to it, somewhere along the way, was fine with it most of the time.

Most of the time.

Except, maybe, right now.

But the question remained, why either Sam or Dad would call him, why they wouldn't just come in and snatch away his blanket and holler in his ear to get his ass outta bed and get a move on – daylight's burning. Only, of course, if they actually weren't in the room with him. Yeah, that actually made a whole lot of more sense than anything else he'd come up with over the last couple of minutes, or however long it had been since the damn ringing had started to grind incessantly on his nerves.

He tried to remember if dad was currently with them or away to hunt solo again, but couldn't really come up with a definite answer. His brain was…scrambled, somewhat, all confused.

But it probably was only Sam and him right now, as it had been so many times in the past.

Only the two of them.

Nothing new.

So, it had to be Sam calling him, about something so absolutely irrelevant that Dean would be pissed at him for days to come.

Maybe he'd gone out to get breakfast, wanted to check what Dean wanted. While that still left open the question why the hell he wouldn't just let him be and take whatever – it wasn't as if Sam didn't know his preferences when it came to food – that at least mollified Dean to some extend. At least his little brother didn't bug him just for the sake of it.

Dean groaned, contemplated his options. It was either ignore the phone and risk getting served something disgusting like muesli or porridge on rye-bread - or haul his body, which seemed to weight more than a ton, up and answer the damn phone, give Sam his order and a piece of his mind while he was at it. Now, while both options didn't sound too appealing, the second one at least included him operating on a full stomach _and_ giving Sam crap about waking him…while the first one undoubtedly left him with less sleep and less food, in the end.

It did occur to Dean, very briefly, that it could be his dad calling him about a hunt, about needing something, but that thought didn't serve to spur him into action the way it usually would.

So – Sam and food. Alright. Dean tried to think about some colorful phrases he could throw at his brother once he'd had him on the line.

That was, in a minute or two – depending on how fast he'd be able to collect all his sense, get up and find the damn phone.

When it started ringing again barely a minute later Dean reached out blindly, towards the general direction of the nightstand, being pretty sure that that was where he'd left the phone before going to bed.

He tried to turn his body to the right, reaching out with his left when suddenly the world stopped spinning.

It felt as if the breath was ripped from his body, his lungs seizing, apparently shrinking in on themselves as pain flared up throughout his body, making it impossible to move, to breathe, to even scream. For a couple of agonizing seconds or minutes or hours that felt like an eternity, he just lay there, his body locked rigid with pain that found no other outlet but to shake him in his innermost core, paralyzing him otherwise.

There was no way to pinpoint the source of it all, no way to figure out where it was coming from or where it was going, no way to find out how to move once he was able to alleviate some of the agony, to hold the pain in check, to make it bearable again.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing but the rushing of blood in his ears, the pounding behind his temples, the fucking _pain_ washing over and through him like a tidal wave, drowning out all other sound, forcing him to focus on simply staying inside his own body. Because he wanted nothing more, nothing more but to get the fuck up and leave…leave his body and get away from it all.

He prayed to lose consciousness, probably for the first time in his life wanted to black out and drop into sweet oblivion, if only just for a little while. Just until he could breathe again without feeling as if he was being ripped to shreds by the mere attempt to lift his hand, to take a breath.

The phone was suddenly forgotten as he fought to roll over, to curl up and cover himself, protect his body from the attack from an unseen assailant.

It couldn't have lasted more than a couple of minutes at the most, there was no way he'd been able to last longer than that until suddenly there was a shuddering breath, a burning pain trailing after the blissful sensation of air being pulled into his lungs before being expelled again in a huff of pain far too quickly.

When he became aware again - or at least aware of more of his surroundings than pain and blood and _hurt -_ he heard himself gasping, panting. The side of his face was pressed into soft earth, his right hand clamped around his abdomen while the last remnants of cramp-like shudders raked through him, shaking him to the core. This was definitely not the motel bed he was lying on, nowhere near the room he remembered. But there was something else he remembered, something that he'd rather have forgotten, or so he thought.

There were flashes of disturbing pictures in front of his inner eye, of swaying stalks and wind rustling through them, whispering ghost-light fingers over his somewhat oversensitive skin. He flinched at the memory of a black bird, but when he managed to open his eyes to mere slits, looking blearily around himself he realized that it wasn't just memories, that it hadn't been a dream. It was still there, still real. The field, the wheat…even then bird, sitting a couple of feet next to him, eying him with unconcealed curiosity.

Dean was still there – wherever _there_ was. He felt that he knew the answer, somewhere deep in his gut, knew what had gotten him into this fucked up situation, too, but wasn't able to spell it all out – even for himself – right now.

But he knew what he had to do, without a doubt.

With great effort, panting from pain and exhaustion, he managed to roll over onto his side, his hand scrambling blindly through his pockets, fingers slipping and sticking through a substance that he didn't want to think about at the moment. He jerked reflexively, breathed harshly through clenched teeth when suddenly his phone started ringing again, the vibration against the side of his chest startling him. He had himself under control again pretty quickly, though, trembling fingers finally closing around the mobile when he found it in the pocket of his shirt, ripping it out clumsily and taking forever to slide the damn thing open.

By the time he'd succeeded, the call had been disconnected again and for a moment he was left staring dumbly at the display, once again wincing in surprise as a second later a low vibration informed him that a message had been forwarded to his voicemail. His vision was blurry to say the least and he could hardly make out the numbers and letters on the slightly smeared display, smeared with something red and sticky, he realized. When he finally made out a word, then another after wiping his thumb repeatedly over the display, he winced again, this time out of disbelief.

27 missed calls, 20 messages in his mailbox.

A couple tries later he'd unlocked the keypad, eyes blinking sluggishly at the numbers and letters that seemed to be dancing a crazy jig in front of his eyes. His head was spinning in slow circles, increasing and slowing at a weird pace, making him nauseous, almost. He couldn't, for the life of him, decipher Sam's name on the display, got distracted time and time again by pain rolling through his body like torrent slapping against the shore.

But he had to reach Sam, had to have him come and help him…

Dean tried in vain to hit the speed dial, tried to steady the trembling in his fingers that snaked down his arms, shooting spikes of white hot pain back up towards his shoulder, the effort to concentrate on this simple task alone monumental it seemed. He closed his eyes, trying to save whatever strength he'd still left, focused every last iota of energy on finishing this task.

Finally, after about a dozen tries that left him with two dozen wrong numbers he never intended to call he managed to hit the button that would let him call back the last number that had tried to reach him. Seconds later was rewarded by the dull ring-tone finally mocked him through an earpiece that seemed to be too far away and far too heavy to be lifted to his ear. With a sigh of relief he simply let the phone drop to the ground in front of him, hoping that the speaker's microphone would be loud enough for him to get his message across.

For Sam to understand him and come to get him.

Fast.

OoOoOoO

As call number 27 was put through to voicemail, John shut the phone forcefully, rubbing a big hand over his stubbled face time and time again, trying to think.

It wasn't a very big town, he'd probably be able to make his way through it within an hour or two, checking bars and parking lots for the Impala, giving him an indication of where he'd gone. Other than that…gps – Dean's phone had gps, right? He might be able to hack into one of the websites, turn it on so he could locate his son. John wasn't a whiz at computer related work, but he had picked up on some of Sam's tricks, had always secretly admired the ease with which his youngest cruised through websites, bringing up information that would have taken them hours to get in the local library or through painstaking foot jobs, interviewing people to milk them for information.

But Sam had taken the computer with him when he'd left for Stanford, and John hadn't held him back. It had been Sam's all along and he'd been the only one to ever really know how to use it to anyways. Besides, the kid would need it at school.

Dean had never really had any interest in computers, at least not much besides surfing for…inappropriate sites and playing the odd computer game here and there, so John had never bothered to replace it. They'd gotten by well enough using the public machines various libraries and internet cafés had to offer so far.

Only now John really whished he had one right there to check on his son's whereabouts right the fuck now.

A trip to the local library would cost him an hour or two at the least…that was if they even had a public computer with internet access – and John being able to actually hack into the right site and get it all working appropriately.

Which was a bit IF, to say the least.

But John had to at least try –had to do something.

He was about to turn around and get his stuff ready, planning on speed dialling Dean another dozen times or so until the task was completed when suddenly the phone in his hand started vibrating, almost making him jump with surprise. He didn't even wait to check the caller ID and picked up, the receiver pressed to his ear before the ring tone even kicked in.

"Dean, where the hell are you?"

The only sound meeting his ear was a strange, faraway rustling, an even fainter scratching noise…

And then there was silence.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I gotta make this real quick, cause I'm on the run already._

_I was totally blown by the reactions and nice reviews and messages all you wonderful people graced me with. I'm not going to let that pressure me, though (or so I hope). I' doing my best with this story, and I hope that you'll recognize the work I put into this, even though I might make some mistakes in spelling or grammar._

_I know this chapter didn't nescessarily clear much up in terms of what happened to Dean and how (actually, nothing was cleared up, I just relized ;-) but I hope to keep you teethered to this story a little longer so you'll have to come back for the next chapter! (I'm ba, I know...)_

_Thank you all so much for reading and especially for reviewing - it's so wonderful to read reactions to what I write, seriously. You guys are awesome!_

_thanks and take care!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 3**

"Dean…where the hell are you? I've been trying to call you all morning. You know better than not to pick up when I try to reach you…"

John realized too late that maybe reproach wasn't exactly the right way to start this, that after everything that had been said and done, by both of them, it might have been better to just start things slow. The only problem was, that he really was worried out of his mind by now and the only weapon John had ever known to wield in a situation like that was to charge forward in order to mask some of the tension that had been building inside him ever since last night – hell, probably even for the last year and couple of months since Sam had left.

Dean had no right to just walk out on him like that. He was the reliable one, the one with his head in the game, no matter what - his eyes on the bigger goal. Dean was the only one never straying off the path that he had been presented with some 20 years ago, had never questioned him, had managed to even draw John back on track on more occasion than one. He had no right to abandon his father now, too.

John was so immersed in his own mixture of emotions that it took him a little too long to realized that there was no answer from the other end of the line. Another second or two later he checked quickly, relieved when indeed he saw his son's name and face grinning at him from the cell's display.

"Dean? Is that you? Answer me, son."

There he was –shouting orders again. But Dean had always done best with orders.

Again there was silence on the other end, silence except for the rustling sound of wind, of something moving reverberating tin-like through the line. John felt the hair on the back of his neck start rising all of a sudden. Something was wrong.

Most definitely wrong.

"Dean…?"

Another sound came over the line now, low and rasping, slightly erratic, a wet, wheezing sound squeezing in between every other rasp.

Oh god…was that…that sounded like…someone breathing? Someone breathing and in pain…

"Sam…"

One simple word but John thought it would shatter him into a thousand tiny pieces.

Dean's voice was barely above a whisper, wet and trembling and so…confused. And with just that tiny word, the mere mention of his little brother's name John thought he felt the pain chasing through his own body, felt his knees go weak and his head spin as a wave of dizziness and agony washed through him.

"S'my…? I…think…think I need some help…"

Dean's voice sounded too far away, as if the phone wasn't close to his mouth and John had to strain his ears to make out the words that were slightly slurred a so frighteningly faint, it was hard to associate them with his eldest. The son that was always cocky and big-mouthed and _loud_. The son always laughing in the face of danger or pain. Or death.

He didn't sound like he was laughing now.

"Dean what…where are you? What happened? Are you hurt?"

John tried to still his fast beating heart, willed his breathing to even out so he could hear better, so he would not miss one single word his son was saying, wouldn't miss one thing, anything that would tell him what had happened, what needed to be done. Willing himself to hear and think clearly in order to be able to help.

Again the silence on the other end was nerve-wrecking, the wheezing breaths becoming more pronounced before a muffled gasp made it's way through the line, sounding to John so much worse than anything else Dean could have said or done, somehow. In their world, it implicated so much more. Dean would never allow his pain to show, would never allow anybody else to hear…

"Dean, talk to me. Where are you? Tell me where you are so I can come and get you…"

"Uhm…think I'm… Hurts… Sammy?"

John closed his eyes, fought the urge to throw up. He could basically _see_ his son, hurt, in pain, that wounded and confused look in his eyes that took about 10 years off his face, stripping him of that carefully crafted mask of invincibility and smugness.

He wanted nothing more than to yell at Dean to get a grip and tell him where the hell he was, how badly he was hurt, so he could finally get up and _do something_. But he knew that, in a situation like this, he needed to tread carefully, knew that from the first impression he'd gotten, from his fucking gut-feeling, that his son was bad off. Worse than bad. He had to be, or else he'd stop calling him Sam, would remember that Sam was far away in California, living the life he'd always wanted. If Dean was OK, he'd have already given John all the information needed, starting with what had happened and ending with his coordinates plus some colorful swear-words, demanding for John to come and get him without preamble.

Dean wouldn't waste one minute, would know what to do…

"Alright…alright. Dean, listen to me…you need to listen to me, alright? It's me, dad. Sam is…he's gone. Just the two of us now… Don't…just listen to me. I need you to concentrate and tell me where you are – what happened. What the hell happened, Dean?"

Dean was quiet, not answering – not hearing him?

John barely held himself in check, out of his mind with a painful mixture of impatience and worry that made it hard to force himself to stay focused.

"Dean, you still with me son? You need to tell me where you are so I can come and help you… Tell me what happened, Dean, please…" the last word came out sounding strangely foreign to John's own ears. He wasn't used to asking – pleading Dean to do something…he'd demand it and Dean would obey, no questions asked.

Maybe it wasn't right, Sam had told him so more often than he could count, had told him that he wasn't supposed to treat his own son like a soldier, but Dean had never complained. Ever.

John pitched his voice low and soothing, with just a tiny hint of urgency and pleading in it, imitating Sam's voice, he realized, which was always most effective when it came to getting something from Dean. His eldest was conditioned to listen to just this tiny whining pitch Sam had been able to dole out from the moment the kid had started talking. Sam had learned to perfect the scheme to a point that he could use it to get Dean to do whatever, even if it included turning something around so that in reality it would be something that was good for Dean, in the end, only the stubborn jerk would think he was doing it for his little brother instead.

John had hated his youngest for getting Dean to smile with the most absurd question, how his eldest would not steel up and wipe his face clear of any emotion whenever reacting to one of Sam's pleas, as he usually did with his father's.

John had hated it…and he'd hated himself for not being able to put that glint of joy into his own son's eyes. Not anymore. Dean's eyes always had lit up impossibly when he set eyes on Sam. It used to be the same with his father – once upon a time…

John again cringed at the sound of haggard breathing coming closer over the line, painful hisses accompanying the huffs of breath that filled the unnerving silence until his son's voice came again, this time much closer to the speaker, as if he'd dragged himself basically on top of the cell.

"Dad?" Dean finally whispered, and again John thought his heart made a giant leap in his chest.

It was the worst feeling - for a father, to know that his kid was alone and hurt and in pain, but not being able to do anything about it.

"Yeah, Dean. It's me. We're hunting together now, remember?" John hedged carefully, voice low and calm, trying to project some of that towards his son.

"Uhm…I …Sam's…gone…?" Dean wheezed, a wet swallow accompanied by a low groan thundering like a hurricane through John's head.

"Yeah, he's gone, son. But we're alright, we're…"

"He OK?" It was said as he whispering plea, an almost sobbing sound accompanying the request that had John squeeze his eyes shut in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation.

"Yeah, Dean. He's alright. Better than we are, maybe… Just…don't worry about him right now."

"'kay…"

John wondered idly how Ok Dean really was with it, how OK he himself was. But this was not the time…certainly not the time.

"Dean, tell me what happened. You need to tell me where you are and how you are hurt."

This time the silence was only brief, and John could hear Dean gathering himself, trying to deliver the kind of report his father was used to get from him, no doubt.

"I…think black dog…got me…"

"What? Dean, we got the black dog last night, remember? We killed it, burned its bones, It's gone."

"We killed it…last night…" Dean repeated, slowly, dumbly almost, as if he needed to remind himself, as if he needed to draw the memory from the deepest recesses of his mind.

If he was hurt as seriously as John thought he was…

He'd forgotten that Sam was gone, had thought his little brother was still with them. It wasn't a good sign, him being so confused, disoriented. John knew his son, knew he only ever got like this when he was seriously, seriously bad off.

"Yes, Dean. We killed it. Do you remember? Do you remember what happened now?"

There was another pause filled with wet, rasping coughs, then Dean finally spoke again.

"Yeah…'member now. Black dog – found 'nother one, though…mate, I think…got me good."

John sat down on his bed with a thump, hand that held the phone sweaty and trembling while with the other he fumbled underneath the bed, dragging out the duffel containing their weapons. He roamed around until he'd gotten a hold on his gun and a handful of silver bullets that were still left from the night before. When they'd hunted down the black dog and killed it. Ending the string of mysterious killings in the forest surrounding the little town, or so they'd thought. Only that apparently they'd been wrong.

"Another dog? Dean, you found another one?"

"Yeah…" the answer was cut off by a trembling moan that had John's lips pulling up and baring his teeth in reaction.

"What…how did you…? And you went after it alone? What were you thinking…?"

John ran a hand over his face, bracing himself, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping to shut out the reprimand that was throbbing though his brain like a wildfire.

Not now…not now.

"Alright, forget it…listen, Dean. I'm coming to get you, but you need to tell me where you are. Do you have any idea where you are?"

When the pause on the other end of the line grew too long, John got up, slinging the duffel over his shoulder, standing there in the middle of the room, ready to go but just feeling his frustration grow out of proportion when he realized that it wasn't going to be that easy. He had no idea where to go.

He needed his son to help him find him.

"Dean, you still with me? Try to stay with me a little longer, alright? Just, try to tell me…is there anything around you - like, a landmark or a house…anything that would tell you where you are? Are you close to where we found the black dog last night?"

There was more rustling, the wind whining through the speaker, but other than that, nothing on the other end and for a moment John feared that either Dean was unconscious…or worse.

No, this couldn't be…it couldn't. Dean wasn't supposed to leave him. Dean was the one supposed to always be there…

"Dad…"

John almost choked at the sound of his son's voice, thin and weak and _hurt_…

…but there.

Confused and in pain and close to fading, apparently, but still there. For now that was all that mattered.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm still here. Can you tell me where you are? What can you see?"

The pause was short this time, but to John it felt like an eternity nonetheless.

"Field…like Gladiator…when he was…going home…"

For a second, John was left confused and he was close to snapping at Dean when suddenly it hit him.

Gladiator…right. Russel…something or other. They'd watched the movie a couple of weeks ago – Dean insisting that John watch it, too, the kid of course getting all excited about the fight-scenes, at one point commenting them like a sports-journalist even. He'd driven John a little insane doing it, but had managed to make both of them laugh so hard in the end that they'd even had to abandon their beers and chips for a while.

It had been a good night – one of far too few, or rather, if John was honest with himself, the only one he could remember in a long, long time.

Maybe the first one since Sam had left, even.

So, the movie - at the beginning, when Maximum or whatever his name had been had been walking through that field – and at the end again, too, when he'd gotten to see his family again. A field…grain, or wheat - whatever. Stalks.

"Dean – you talking about a field? Are you in a field somewhere?"

A painful grunt was the only answer he got and already John's mind was reeling.

Definitely a field. That had to be what Dean was talking about.

John wrecked his brain, trying to remember the layout of the town they were currently staying in, trying to remember when they'd driven in two days ago. There had been fields, lots of them. Fields surrounded by woods and even more fields yet.

Alright, so, it had to be close to where they'd hunted last night…if the dogs had been mates like Dean suggested they'd most likely hunt in the same territory. They hadn't tracked the creature in any field last night, though, there'd only been a couple of acres of dry land next to the forest they'd killed the dog in. But no grain. John spun in circles almost, his brain working overtime as he tried to think, to remember.

But they'd passed a field that had looked like wheat on their way into town a couple of days ago…he thought he remembered. A huge field, as a matter of fact, or rather – probably a couple of them. John thought he remembered seeing the light of the moon reflecting off the heads of the stalks even though he hadn't really been paying much attention. Could be, of course, that there were plenty more fields just like that one surrounding the whole damn town, each one a possible place where Dean could be, but John had to start somewhere, so it was as good a place as any.

Besides the little fact, of course, that he might not have all that much time to find Dean if he wasn't where John looked first.

"Dean, you need to tell me – are you in one of those fields we passed when we came into town? Try to remember, son…"

Dean gasped, gulped something that could have been either an affirmation or a simple sound of discomfort.

"Dean…"

"Yeah…yeah. 'm in a field - outside of town…heading south."

Finally.

The fear for his son was almost overwhelming, almost paralyzing him in his actions, but he needed to get a grip, and he needed to do it fast.

And – he had to get a car.

Since Dean had taken the Impala John was left with no means of transportation whatsoever. Not that it would manage to stop him... It might prove to be a bit tricky to steal a car in broad daylight, but right now he couldn't have cared less.

He needed to find Dean, and he needed to find him fast.

Another gasp of pain from his son, lost and hurt in some field god only knew where drew John back to the here and now. Back into action.

Within seconds he was on his way out to the parking lot, circling the building since he didn't find it wise to attempt a break-in in front of all the doors and windows in broad daylight. There, at the back of the building, partly hidden behind some dumpsters, he found an old, beat up pickup that would suit his needs just fine. And it wasn't locked. John was inside the cab and fumbling with the wiring in an instant, the phone tucked snugly between shoulder and ear. He wasn't going to let go of Dean now.

"Dean, listen to me…are you listening?"

John barely waited for a grunt of confirmation that made his lips pull taut over his teeth before going on.

"Alright. I'm on my way, you hear me? I'm on my way. But I need you to stay with me, alright? You stay awake and talk to me."

"Talking…hurts…"

John closed his eyes for a second, collecting himself before slamming the truck into drive as the engine finally stuttered to life, peeling out of the back alley and careening out onto the main road, speeding towards the town center. It just figured that they'd chosen a motel all the way on the _other_ end of town than where they needed to go in the end.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, reluctantly almost.

He didn't really want to know, not while he could do absolutely nothing about it, not while he wasn't there with Dean to make it better. But he needed to know what he was dealing with here. And he needed to keep Dean conscious, needed to keep him focused. As long as his son had something to focus on, he would fight. John knew his son, knew he was a fighter. He was a goddamn _fighter_ – always had been.

Dean had always needed to have someone around him, had needed someone talking, even though it preferably had been his little brother, as much as he bitched and whined on every other occasion about Sam not shutting up, when hurt and in pain he needed the sound of Sam's voice to keep him grounded. John knew that.

He knew.

Sam had always been the one that had best known how to center Dean, especially when he'd been hurt or sick, had always managed to draw his brother's attention away from whatever vile situation to make him fight against whatever odds were stacked against him.

But Sam wasn't here now.

And John would be damned if he didn't manage to keep his own son tethered to the here and now just a little longer.

"Dean, talk to me. Where are you hurt? Do you know? Can you tell me?"

A gasping breath, a stuttering cough, then Dean's voice came over the speaker again. John thought he'd never been as relieved and terrified at the same time in his entire life.

"Don't know…but I can't…talking hurts… Shoulder…leg… Don't know dad…"

His voice trailed off and John could hear Dean fumbling with the phone, could hear him drag in a wet breath yet biting off on the sound of pain that lingered right there on the tip of his tongue.

"Are you bleeding?" John ventured carefully, knowing full well that, with Dean it would be either full on bloody and gaping wounds or he wouldn't even bother. To Dean, it wasn't an injury if he wasn't in danger of bleeding out or was missing at least part of a limb.

Again Dean paused, as if he needed to assess the damage, needed to actually take a look first. John rolled his lips against his teeth to keep himself from asking again.

"Yeah…think so. Kinda…think I'm kinda…bleeding a lot…actually…"

John nodded, his lip still stuck between his teeth until he realized that Dean wouldn't be able to see.

Like he hadn't known…

"Alright, Ok. It's alright. I think I know where you might be. I'll be there in a couple of minutes. But till then I need you to stay focused and awake, alright? I need you to keep talking to me, even if it hurts."

John could imagine his son blinking sluggishly, shock and pain always taking at least a decade off his features, his jaw set, trying to concentrate all his senses on listening to his father, on doing as he was told. Because as much as Dean hated being told what to do when feeling fine, as much did he fight to listen when he wasn't on top of his game. It had been engraved into Dean's very being that being rebellious and self-sufficient was alright up to a certain point, but it was imperative to listen as soon as one of their lives was in danger, as soon as it really _counted_.

On the other hand…what if he wasn't only listening but…

"Dean…come on, _talk _to me. You know the drill - gotta work with me here…"

Dean coughed painfully, then rasped out: "Yeah, dad. …'m still here…still listenin'."

"Good…good. I'm almost at the edge of town already. Did you go to the place where we hunted the black dog last night? Are you in the same area?"

"Think…a little farther…five miles…someone was attacked…" Dean started hacking again, rolling somehow closer to the phone in the process as John's ears were practically assaulted with the shattering wet coughs that ripped through the line and almost made him throw the phone away he was so nauseated.

When it finally stopped John was close to both throwing up and at the same time pressing the gas pedal of the stolen truck pretty much flat to the ground as he fought the urge to speed the goddamn car out of the town and into the open area surrounding it. Last night it had taken them about 20 minutes to reach their destination. He planned on getting there much faster this time.

"Dean?" God, his voice sounded like he was close to crying. Which he was, truth be told, but Dean didn't need to know that.

"…the shed…" Dean wheezed, now so close to the goddamn phone that John had trouble hearing him, his voice was so overdriven through the speaker and drowned out by his ragged breathing.

"What…which shed? Are you near a shed, Dean? The shed we found the dog in yesterday?"

John's mind was reeling. The shed they'd found the dog in and then chased it through the goddamn forest wasn't all that far anymore, not at the speed he was going.

"No…'nother one. Couple miles farther… Next to…the road…"

Dean's voice drifted off and for a moment John was afraid that his son was loosing consciousness – or worse – till he realized that Dean had apparently turned himself away from the phone again since his voice came back, if a little farther away only a minute later.

"I parked…the car behind it… About 5 miles…down the road. 's green…I think…"

_Yes…thank god. _

"That's good…great. Ok, I'll only be a couple more minutes, Dean. You hold on, you hear me?"

For a minute there was silence, and if it hadn't been broken by the occasional rasp and hiss of pain from his son, John thought he would have gone even more insane that he already had. He just passed the first shed, the one they'd found yesterday, when Dean's voice once again ripped him out of his feverish paralysis.

"S'm…Sammy?"

John closed his eyes in silent desperation, fighting to keep his voice low and levelled and devoid of the frustration he felt shattering his insides. For Dean to be this confused it could only mean a very serious head-wound – concussion…or shock…blood loss. Or, probably, all of it combined.

"It's dad, Dean…but yeah, I'm still here. I'm almost there, son." He said softly.

"Dad…think…'m bleeding pretty bad… Can't really…I tried but…"

No. _NO._

"No, Dean. You don't…you don't get to give up now, you hear me? You hold on till I get there. That's an order, goddamnit."

Another sound made it through the line and for an uncounted number of seconds John was left at a loss as to what it would mean.

When it finally dawned on him, he could have kicked Dean right into the afterlife for it.

Dean was goddamn chuckling. Or at least trying to – it still sounded painful and like he was going to choke any minute, but he definitely _was _chuckling. A little. Between painful gasps and wheezes.

What the hell…

"Such a…girl…"

"Shut the hell up, Dean. What…"

John felt the irritation at his eldest irrational behaviour first grow and then morph into even greater worry the next second. Dean's voice sounded slurred – like he was having trouble forming the words right. That and him being delirious could mean a number of things – but neither one could mean anything good.

"'m not…bailing out, dad… 'm not. 'm just…don't know… Don't know how you're…gonna find me… The fields huge…"

The soft chuckle turned into something frighteningly close to a sob.

"I tried to get up…but I don't…think I can... " Dean's voice was once again so low that John had trouble hearing him at all.

"It's alright…alright, Dean. Don't move…just lie still and try to stay calm. I'll find you…I will. We'll figure something out."

John's arms and hand started aching from the death grip he had on the steering wheel. The dread that kept a firm grip on his heart threatened to overwhelm him once more. Hearing his son like this…sounding so unlike _Dean_, so fucking weak. Dean had always been the strongest in their family – always, even though he himself was the only one not aware of it. There was no way to comfort him other than talking to him. And there was no way to know how badly hurt he was, how much longer he was going to be able to hold on.

John skidded the car around a bend in the road, the surrounding landscape once again changing from dense forest to wide open fields, when he finally saw the shed. It was a deep green, with a dark red shingled roof, tilting precariously to one side, looking about ready to collapse in on itself. And right there, peeking out from behind the crumbling wall at the back John saw the chrome bumper of the Impala reflect a ray of sunlight that cut through the thin cover of clouds overhead. John would have probably never even seen it if he hadn't been looking out for it.

Behind the shed, a field of wheat spread out towards the horizon as far as John could see.

Damn it.

Dean was right – the field was huge. Bigger than huge. It was…enormous. It almost took John's breath away.

"Oh god…"

He'd already stopped the car on the side of the road, next to the shed and left it idling for a second. How the hell was he going to find Dean in that great big sea of wheat-stalks that were at least the height of a grown man…

"Oh my fucking god…"

John hadn't been aware of speaking out loud till Dean's voice ripped him out of his stupor.

"Blasphemy…dad. Pastor Jim…would have you whipped…"

John turned off the engine, not caring that the car was still partly parked on the road – not caring about even removing the key or closing the damn driver's door for that matter. It wasn't like he was going to take the car back to its owner. He swung the duffel with his weapons and their first aid kit over his shoulder and climbed out of the truck, standing in front of the wall of gently swaying wheat-stalks. They were even bigger than him.

Goddamnit.

How in hell was he ever going to find his son in that ocean of rustling golden green?

"Dean, you got your duffel nearby?"

When no answer came right away John once again felt his skin flush with goose-bumps.

"Dean…come on. I'm here already – found the Impala. But I need your help so I can find you out there. Can you reach your duffel? Is it anywhere close by?"

John started pacing, walking along the length of the field as if miraculously an opening would present itself, indicating where his son was. He was looking for broken stalks, a trail, something that would maybe at least show him where Dean had gone in. He might be able to follow some kind of path then, if he was lucky enough.

Which he wouldn't be, most likely. It wasn't like anything ever turned out uncomplicated for them, right? Besides, Dean was nothing if not effective, and he would have taken great precautions to _not_ leave any trail behind, most certainly, so nobody would be able to follow him.

It was the most reasonable thing to do, when on a hunt, and it turned out the worst fucking decision in their current situation.

There was huffing and a desperate groan on the other end of the line and John involuntarily perked his ears, trying to find the source of the sound somewhere in the field in front of him, trying to _hear_ his son not only over the phone but directly. Well - again, it would have been extraordinary lucky…

"Dean?"

He was getting increasingly more impatient, now that he was so fucking close…and still it felt like he was miles away from his son yet. John felt like bashing into that goddamn field and just roam it, do _anything_ at all instead of just standing here and having to rely on his most likely delirious son to help find him.

"I can't…I don't know…I can't find it…" Dean's voice was getting weaker and weaker.

_So close…so damn close._

Ok, so scratch the flare gun. John had been hoping that Dean had packed it and would now be able to fire it – to give John at least a relative idea of where to go.

What else? Whatelsewhatelsewhatelse?

Asking Dean to call out would probably not do him any good unless the kid was really close to the edge of the field. But considering the way he was having trouble simply talking…

"Dean…" John started, when Dean's voice interrupted him.

"Birds…damn crows…" he choked off, coughing, and John could hear more rustling, the scrape of something brushing against the fabric of a jacket or jeans.

"Damn, dad…" Definitely a whimper now, and John was ready to sprint off into the field blindly when Dean spoke again, a little more determined, a little more pained too, if that was even possible.

John didn't like what he was going to propose to Dean now, but he knew that it was his only choice. A frighteningly slim one, sure, but it was a chance nonetheless. And he'd grasp for straws right now, among other things.

"Listen Dean, there's no way I'll find you by sheer luck. The wheat's too high to see anything. I'll disconnect the call now, call you again in a minute. You let the phone ring and I'll see if I can hear your phone. I'll be able to find you then…"

He didn't want to hang up, didn't want to break the contact for fear of not being able to reach Dean again if he did. He'd never had an easy time letting go of his sons, despite the fact that he'd left them both to their own devices for such long periods of time when growing up. His most recent loss only made him want to hold on even tighter to the one son he had still left. But there was no other way now…

"The bird…dad. Damn crow…won't leave me alone…" Dean whispered almost breathlessly.

"Just…don't hang up…please…"

John's heart did a quick flip at the obvious plea in his son's voice and he was about to try and break it to Dean gently that he just had to hang up, when the meaning of Dean's statement dawned on him.

Birds…he'd been talking about crows. John had thought it to be feverish delusions – Dean liked to make up certain things when he got delirious, but the birds… Crows were carrion-eaters, right? So if there was blood…if his son was bleeding badly enough…

God, he didn't even want to think it, but if Dean was right, if he wasn't hallucinating…

John's eyes roamed the horizon, squinting against the sparse sunlight filtering through the thinning clouds, reflecting off the swaying stalks. It took him a while till he could make out what looked like a couple of birds, big and dark, drawing lazy circles in the sky quite a ways in the distance.

Crows. Not that John was an ornithologist, but...

Fucking carrion eaters, circling over what very well could be his son's bleeding body.

"Dad…don't hang up…"

John was running before he even got to think further than the next step. Before he was able to answer Dean he was already surrounded by an ocean wheat stalks, immersed in them, the coarse heads and leafs slapping against his face and arms, his chest, clawing for him like ghostly hands trying to pull him away. The rows between the stalks were barely wide enough for him to run through and he cut through the lines every so often, trying to roughly keep going in the direction that he'd seen the birds in.

"I'm still here, still here Dean. I won't hang up, you hear me? I'm…I think I know where you are. Just hang in there a couple of minutes longer and I'll be there, alright?"

That was, if the fucking birds didn't just close in on the carcass of a deer or rabbit.

No, no, it had to be it. It had to be Dean. There was no other way – no other way.

"Dad…"

"Yeah, Dean. Almost there, almost…" John stopped, huffing, straining his neck to see over the towering stalks, then cut through a couple of lines before starting running again.

"You think crows…like…pick at you even though…you're not dead…yet…?"

John almost stumbled at the question, but caught his balance at the last second.

"What…Dean, just…"

"It's huge…and its eyes are all…yellow now… Are they…supposed to change their color, dad?"

John picked up speed. This could definitely be nothing but a hallucination now. Unless they had to deal with freaking spirit crows to top it off, but he really, really didn't hope so.

"Just stay calm, alright? Don't look at it, just look away, Dean. It won't hurt you…I'll be right there to help you, alright?"

It was a simple promise, the promise of a father to his son, comparable to the promise to chase away the monsters that hid in the closet or underneath the bed. It was a promise John had never really given either of his sons, he now realized, a little belatedly. Instead of promises that everything would be alright, he'd given his nine-year old a gun to shoot the monsters – and therefore had made them real. He'd made his sons grow up too fast – both of them, but especially Dean.

He'd given him responsibility where he really should have given him a childhood instead, a time of being comforted instead of comforting others. He shouldn't have been the one too keep Sam's childhood real in giving up his own.

And he definitely should have heard his own father reassuring him more often instead of being the one to tell his dad that everything would be alright in the end.

He'd deserved better.

John had no idea how long he'd been running, only a rough idea of how far he'd made it so far. The high growth of the stalks surrounding him made seeing ahead almost impossible, and he regularly had to stop and jump up to make out the birds still circling in the sky ahead of him.

All throughout he kept up a stream of words rolling off his lips, unaware of their meaning, hoping to offer his son reassurance and comfort, hoping to soothe his own fraying nerves.

Just a little farther.

The birds were just a little in front of him now, drawing wider circles as they no doubt spotted the large, dark man running like a madman through the field, closing in on their prey. Low, hoarse croaks that were no doubt directed at John drifted to his ears, either trying to chase him off or lead him closer. John wanted to believe, with all his heart, that the latter was the fact, but he couldn't be sure at all.

He was just about to stop and shout out, to grab the short handles machete he'd stuffed into his duffel and just run berserk on the vegetation around him, when the stench hit him.

The smell was gagging, and John felt his eyes tear up involuntarily, felt his throat clog up and bile rise up in his throat.

He knew that smell. Better than he would have liked.

It was the unmistakable smell of a fucking black dog. Or at least, the same smell that the beast they'd last night had given off. The lore they'd assembled about black dogs said many things, about the beasts having dog-like bodies and human heads, dogs with shaggy fur, some with no physical form at all. Some were indeed black, like the name indicated and some just looked like your regular dog and came in many varying shapes and sizes. Some had amber eyes and some had red ones, some were as big as a regular German sheepdog, some the size of a grown man, some as big as small horses.

But most all of them smelled like death and decay and centuries of decomposition clinging to their very being.

The beast last night had been of the big and actually black kind – the one with the huge white fangs and fiery red eyes. And it had smelled like a ton of decomposing bodies all piled on top of each other and left out in the sun to rot. For weeks.

It was exactly the same smell that hit John's nostrils now, in broad daylight, in the middle of a field of wheat.

The realization of it hit John hard.

He skidded to a stop in the middle of the field, chest heaving, eyes wet from the perspiration that had dripped into them, the phone still pressed hard to his ear. He eased his free hand off the straps of the duffel, let it slowly trail around his side and to the back of his jeans where he'd stacked his gun when setting out. The gun loaded with silver bullets. The one he'd used to shoot the dog last night – in sync with his son. They'd both emptied pretty much a clip each into the huge animal before it had finally dropped dead.

If its mate was close by now…

A black dog usually didn't hunt during the day, definitely not out in the open like this, but maybe…

John had heard of stranger things than a supernatural creature changing its MO. Especially if the dog had lost its mate last night, like Dean had suggested.

"Dean." John whispered into the phone, hoping fervently that his son heard, understood. "I need to put the phone away for a second."

"No…dad …"

"It's alright, Dean, alright. I won't hang up…I won't. I just need to check that the area's clean, alright? I'll have the phone right in my pocket, I'll be right back with you. Just give me a minute."

Before Dean could say anything, before he could so much as even make a sound that would most likely stop John from doing his job properly, he slipped the phone into his pocket, still turned on, never cutting the connection.

He gripped the gun with both hands and turned in a slow circle, his ears on high alert, eyes narrowed to scan the almost impenetrable thicket of wheat surrounding him. Carefully he inched his way forward, placing his feet as carefully as possible. If the dog was hiding, stalking its prey…it could be pretty much anywhere and John would probably only become aware of it when it was already upon him or Dean.

If possible, the stench got even sharper.

John had a hard time to stay focused.

One look up at the sky, partly obscured by vegetation, showed him that he was pretty much smack in the middle of the crows' wide orbit. It looked like the animals were climbing higher again, drawing away from John.

Drawing away from the black dog they could see lurking nearby?

John's nerves were tingling, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

His foot slipped all of a sudden, almost throwing him off balance.

He caught himself, crouching down to drop one hand to the ground, fingers brushing over the sodden earth underneath him.

Sodden and…bloody.

John grew cold as ice.

It was as if the breath had been stolen from his lungs all of a sudden, his throat constricting, each and every breath burning like alcohol running into an open wound.

Blood.

It was only now that he realized that he was crouching in a small row between the lines of wheat, a line that had been broken to his left and right by something being dragged through it. Something big – something that had been breaking through the field without hesitation, tugging something else behind it. Something that had been bleeding – and none too lightly.

"Dean…"

To the right or to the left?

There was no way to be sure which way the creature had dragged his son. John spun himself in a circle, desperately trying to make a decision, fearing, _dreading_ that he'd make the wrong one, that he'd come too late, in the end. He growled deep in his throat, dangerously close to shouting out in heated frustration of the 50/50 chance that seemingly left him with a million different possibilities to screw this up.

Right or left?

The sudden low, raspy croak made him jump and before he knew it he had his gun trained dead center on the chest of a large, black bird that stood about five feet into the tunnel to his right. The bird looked at him, seemingly unfazed, its tiny, beady eyes glistening, head tilted slightly to the side to better be able to seize him up.

John took a deep, quivering breath, trying to contemplate his options. He could shoot the damn things, get it over with. But it would be a waste of a perfectly good bullet, one he might need to off the dog once he came upon it. And firing a shot now wouldn't exactly serve to keep his whereabouts a secret to the dog, would certainly alarm it, maybe even tempt it to attack.

John couldn't risk that.

He lowered the gun slightly, straightened his stance, then kicked the tip of his boot into the dirt, whirling up a spray of earth into the direction of the bird to shoo it away.

The crow croaked irritably, spread its wings and hopped back a wobbly step before stopping again, its eyes never leaving John.

"Just…get the hell away…" John hissed between clenched teeth, kicking another gust of dirt at the stubborn bird.

Time was running out, and here he was, wasting his time with a damn crow.

Finally, the crow seemed to have enough of John assaulting it and turned around, spreading its wings slightly as it hop-jumped along the pathway between the stalks, croaking incessantly. But it didn't fly off, didn't take off into the air like John had supposed it would. Instead it resumed its precarious "walk", once even turning its head to shoot a measuring look back at John, almost as if…

…as if making sure he was following it?

No, that couldn't be…it simply wasn't possible.

The bird had now reached a slight bend in the bloody pathway, stopping momentarily to once again look back at John, and then, with a last, raspy croak it finally spread its wings fully, flapped them powerfully once, twice, three times before clearing the towering stalks and taking off into the sky.

For a precious second John was left dumbfounded.

Could it be that the animal had tried to steer him towards Dean? Was that even possible? The damn thing wasn't Lassie…

But John didn't really have time to spare, and since he'd had no idea where to go anyways…

He reluctantly started moving then, shoulders down and slightly hunched forward, following the ragged path of broken stalks, praying that he didn't make a big, fat mistake. If the crow had led him wrong…he was personally going to make sure that he'd rid the earth of the birds, once and for all. But for now he tried to focus all his senses on the hunt, just the hunt for now. Because the hunt came first, before all else.

He'd drilled that rule into his sons time and time again.

_The hunt before all else._

John believed in his own rules, he really did.

Only, when one of his kids was involved…it was damn hard to stick to them, it turned out.

Close to impossible.

But John also knew that, in losing his focus now he would probably risk more than just Dean's life. He'd risk getting hurt himself, which could very well lead to him not being able to help his son to get the hell out of here.

And he planned on getting him out – both of them.

He focused on the hunt like his son would have him do, like Dean would have done himself. Trying not to think about the blood gently squishing underneath the soles of his boots – blood that most likely was Dean's.

Dean's…

But he wasn't going to think about this now.

John heard the faint echo of his son's tinny voice coming from the inside of his pocket, Dean talking to him, or calling out to him through the phone that still was their only connection.

Just another minute…another minute. Just until he was sure…

John crossed another row of stalks and was barely able to skid to a stop when he was suddenly face to face with the biggest black dog he'd ever seen in his entire life.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_So, first off I got to say THANK YOU for all the wonderful reviews I've been getting. I feel a little bit overwhelmed, which is why I might either not have answered back to some of them yet, or wrote total gibberish or the thousandth thank you that won't nearly come close to expressing what it really means to me. I gotta say, getting this kind of feedback, it makes writing even more fun than ever before. And, of course, it puts the pressure on, because I don't want to dissapoint you guys. _

_I hope chapter 3 did not dissapoint, though - I know it didn't really have Dean in it...at least not his POV, but I feel it's important for this story to let a lot of if be told through John's eyes. _

_This is strange, not having Sam in this story, it has me working hard on getting John right, not portraying him too soft, yet not too hard, either. I hope I'm doing his wonderful character justice, the loyalty and love for his sons versus the drive that he has, doing what he's doing and why what he does come across a little harsh sometimes... It's my interpretation of his character, I hope it works for you, too. It's not going to be candycanes and lollipops all through the story, that's for sure._

_Later chapters will prove to be even harder to write, I think, will be a bit more controversial - but I'll get there when the time comes._

_This was a long chapter, but I didn't want to break it up in the middle, and we'll have Dean again next chapter, I promise._

_So, I hope this was worth the read and wait for you, and I'd love to hear your opinion...your reviews keep me going!_

_thanks and hopefully till next week/next chapter!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Alright, so...the late post is definitely not my fault! I spent about an hour yesterday editing the chapter, then close to 30 minutes to get my wifi running again (because, of course, something has to stop working the minute I'm actually going to need it) and then...ff didn't let me upload the chapter. _

_Which is why I'm one day late, but I hope you'll forgive me, and hopefully enjoy chapter 4 now anyways!_

_Oh, and, still don't own them..._

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 4**

Dad had stopped talking to him.

He'd been there, on the phone, just a second ago and then suddenly he'd been gone and now Dean couldn't hear him anymore.

The pang of loneliness and desperation that washed over Dean when he realized that he was once again alone was almost overwhelming. He'd kept talking for a while, or at least had spat out a couple of words, too slurred even for himself to understand. But after a while even that effort got to be too much and Dean stopped trying.

Maybe he'd just imagined it all…maybe his head was more messed up than he'd first thought? But no…no, definitely not. Dad had been there – _he'd been there_.

Dad had given him hope. Almost like Sam used to, keeping him focused, his head in the game, but right now…right now it had been even more necessary than ever before to hear a familiar voice – anything to keep him alert. With that anchor gone, Dean was falling again…falling without ever hitting bottom.

The music was there again, drifting back into his subconscious – the violins and celli, a little nagging and definitely insistent, but somehow farther away than before – and it had pretty much lost all it's beauty since Dean had heard it last.

Dean remembered now, remembered the movie that had imprinted this sick melody onto his brain – Gladiator. Dad and he'd had a blast watching that some weeks ago in one of their crappy motel rooms. The reception on the ancient TV had been pretty bad, but Dean had done his best to comment the fight-scenes like a seasoned sports commentator so his dad would not miss a single thing.

John had been annoyed at first, had done that grumbling and cursing thing quite a lot, and Dean supposed that he hadn't said anything solely due to the fact that…well, dad didn't really say a lot lately. Nothing that Dean wanted to hear, that was. And as soon as he said something, it would only serve to piss Dean off. He'd just _look_ all thoughtful and sometimes even suffering when he thought Dean didn't notice. Which he did, of course.

Dean saw a lot more things than he ever let his dad believe, had always seen a lot more than both his ignorant family members ever gave him credit for.

But in the end John had watched the whole movie with him, if to re-establish some kind of rapport with his eldest, or simply because he'd been too tired to get up and leave Dean didn't know. Didn't care to know, either, because in the end, they'd both had a blast, John at one point laughing so hard, he'd spilled his beer even, so it really had been worth the persistence.

Dean knew now the music he'd been hearing had been in his head only, the swaying grain stalks triggering that memory, and it worried him a little that his brain would come up with something like this instead of some cool rock song – even though concussed out of his wits. Still didn't explain why he didn't hear AC/DC, or Metallica or Zeppelin instead of this…classical…whatever. But, honestly, what did it matter, really? He wasn't going to get out of this one. Not this time.

Not by himself.

Not without Sam here as backup.

With Sam by his side, none of this would have happened in the first place…

If Sam had stayed Dean and dad wouldn't have gotten into their damn argument to begin with…Sam usually the one attracting all of dad's unwanted attention, made John unload his foul moods on his little brother instead…

The whining violins started mingling with the hoarse voice of the woman singing in that foreign language again and Dean almost choked on the groan of despair that washed over him as all the noises assaulted his ears, seeping into his muddled brain. A brain that, for whatever reason, wanted nothing more than to sleep, to rest – to not think anymore.

Just for once…just once, if the dreams would be kept at bay…

_God…shoot me now__,_ Dean thought, then revised his statement quickly.

Maybe he should shoot that damn woman, wailing away like some goddamn banshee. Yeah, that definitely sounded a lot better.

Dean tried to reach for his gun, the one he was sure he kept tucked away in the back of his jeans but found his body unwilling to cooperate. It made him frown, huff a little in frustration, only to try again a minute later – unfortunately with the same result.

Damn this.

His body was impossibly heavy – heavier than ever before, aching from a place so deep down, the pain almost wasn't real anymore.

There'd been this one time, when he'd been about eighteen or nineteen and he'd cracked a vertebrae in his upper back. The doctors had put him into one of those chest-casts for a whole month, insisting that, if he wasn't careful, he'd end up paralyzed permanently. They'd lived in an apartment in Phoenix at the time, Dean remembered that, up on the fifth floor, with the elevator permanently out of order and while he had been able to walk just fine, he remembered every step, every movement had been so goddamn hard because his upper body had been so fucking _heavy_ with that cast pulling him down.

This right now was a hundred times worse still.

It wasn't just his chest – even though that felt pretty damn heavy all by itself – but his whole body. Heavy and…

A sudden shot blasted through the air, and only when Dean tore his eyes open at the sound did he realize that he'd had them closed in the first place.

Another shot sounded, than another…in rapid succession, tearing through the music, roughly cutting it off.

Thank god for small gifts…

The crows overhead croaked angrily, swearing off and away but staying close by and within sight nonetheless. Dean could still see their shadows, their sleek black bodies gliding soundlessly through the sky.

His body jerked with every shot like an electrical shock charging through him– and god, was that an awful feeling.

With the shots, things changed drastically.

His body still felt heavy, but with the violent jerks of surprise the pain started raging through him with full force again, paralyzing at first, pressing him down even more.

Then came the tremors, the white hot, angry tendrils of agony clawing their way up and down and in and out, tearing him apart and squeezing him tight.

But this time, the pain didn't knock him out, didn't give him the release of unawareness.

It was what he wanted, sure, to stay up and alert, to be able to fight this, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to be granted peace, for just a little while, just a little…

He wanted to scream but there was no air left in his lungs, no words or sounds that would come even close to expressing the agony he was in.

He ended up lying there, on the cold, damp ground, body jerking and trembling without refrain, his mind screaming out the terror that his body wasn't able to express.

A last shot rang out and then all was silent again. For a never-ending minute, the world stopped spinning, the air too still, and it seemed like there was nothing else left on the planet but Dean – the wheat, the crows - and the pain raging through him with every beat of his heart.

Everything was deadly still.

No birds chirping, no crows croaking, no insects buzzing - no nothing.

Deadly still.

_Dad._

Dad…the dog…

Dean had killed the dog, right?

He thought he remembered shooting it, remembered shooting at something, at least, but he really couldn't be sure. His head was all scrambled, his memories – his sense of time all mixed up.

He remembered dad and him, firing at a big black beast in unison…remembered being dragged across a field – the field he was lying in? – his leg a screaming mass of pain…the dog dragging him by the tortured limb…

Dean had shot it.

And then, when the dog had dropped him with a roar of rage and disbelief, turning on him with eyes that spit fire and fangs that craved blood, Dean had shot it again.

And again.

And again.

The dog had been dead, Dean was sure of it.

Like,_ almost_ _pretty_ sure.

But what if he was wrong? His head was so messed up, so muddled… He'd thought he'd been talking to Sam just minutes ago, and then it had turned out that Sam was gone – to school like he'd always wanted and Dean had been talking with dad instead of his little brother.

Dean knew he was suffering from a concussion…maybe worse, knew that the things he thought he remembered could turn out to be nothing but a sick imagination of his fevered brain. But the thing with the dog…it felt real, the memory so vivid...

But then again - the memory of Sam had been real too, like he'd been there just hours ago, sharing a room with Dean, riding in the Impala next to him, being his annoying little self. That had felt pretty damn real, too.

What if Dean hadn't killed the dog in the first place – or if he actually _had_ shot it, what if the dog had survived, had waited and licked his wounds, waiting for the cover of darkness to pounce on its pray again?

What if it had waited and now had found his dad…?

Dad had been looking for him, had told Dean that he was in the field, had seen the crows. What if he'd stumbled upon the injured beast, no doubt even more pissed now than before…? What if the thing had gotten him…?

Dean strained his ears, but the air stayed quiet, not a sound to be heard but the soft rustling of wind as it swept through the wheat.

Dad. He had to find dad, make sure he was alright.

"Dad…" It came out a raspy cough, painful and grating and barely above a whisper.

Too faint for even the goddamn crow to hear that Dean only now realized was still – or again – sitting close to his face, perched on his upper arm which was splayed out to the side a little, seemingly unperturbed by the commotion and staring at Dean with unfazed interest.

Great. The one animal he wanted to have near him the least at the moment – or maybe second least, considering the dog - and the stupid thing wouldn't budge. Its head was tipped slightly to the side, curious, eyeing Dean with that piercing intensity that managed to unsettle him time and time again. Its eyes once again their normal brownish-black color, but still the close inspection was disconcerting. And it was way too close for comfort.

"Dad…" Dean croaked again, squeezing his eyes shut when the word sliced a stab of pain through his chest and side.

And still, John wouldn't be able to hear if he wasn't really, really close by – if he was even still alive.

Dean pushed himself up and to the side, the crow flapping its wings and crying angrily at him as it was forced to hop off his arm.

A fierce cry of pain emanated from deep inside Dean's chest, and he forced himself to concentrate and let it roll past a swollen tongue and clenched lips to escape his mouth barely a groan anymore.

He wasn't going to give in – not here, not now.

He had to find his father, had to make sure he was alright…still alive. If he was hurt – or worse… there was no point to it anymore – no point in fighting, no point to anything. No point in even trying to stay conscious, to stay alive.

With his brother gone – if his dad left him too…Dean would be alone. And he'd never done alone well.

His head filled with the fierce drumming sound of his own heartbeat, blood boiling and rushing, drowning out all other sounds around him.

Get up and going…up and going…just a little bit, just a little farther.

He rolled himself onto his front, almost sobbing at the slicing pain tearing through his shoulder and side, his leg…had to stop for another second or two till the world stopped its vicious flip again. Then he started to drag himself forward – crying out with every move of every single muscle of his body – but dragging himself on nonetheless. Going in the rough direction of the shots, or so he hoped.

Barely a couple of shuffling inches later his right hand brushed against something cool and solid, something so familiar, Dean didn't even need to think twice about whether to reach for it or not. His gun, laying only a couple of feet from where Dean had been lying all this time.

Dad would give him hell for losing his gun.

But for dad to find out, Dean would have to find him first. And, if Dean made it out of here, if dad actually found him – or the other way around…Dean doubted that he would care about any verbal roasting or drilling lecture his dad would have ready for him. Hell, he'd welcome it with open arms, even, if it only meant that he would make it _out of here_.

Dean gripped the gun like a life-line, fingers feeling strangely stronger once they wrapped around the familiar hilt, drawing from some last, deeply hidden resource of strength. When he started moving again, propelling his body forward with his right leg and arm, left leg dragging impotently along behind him, he kept the muzzle angled awkwardly away from his own chest so he wouldn't accidentally shoot himself…even though Dean wasn't even sure if he had any bullets left anymore.

He might have gone a little over the top filling that ugly bastard of a black dog with silver…if he'd ever even fired the gun, that was. The easiest way to find out would have been to check his clip, see if he'd fired any bullets recently at all, but he lacked the energy to accomplished even that simple task.

Dean had no idea how long he'd dragged his screaming body onwards, had no idea how far he'd made it for the simple act of turning his head to look back towards where he'd come from proved to be too much for him to handle. It couldn't have been far, even though he felt like he'd been at it for hours.

He kept pushing himself until he felt a familiar swoop of wings, a cool breeze brushing over his neck and face and felt another wave of almost panic-like fear wash over him. When he looked up he saw the dark figure of the crow once again bear down, its body now coming to rest smack in front of him, blocking his path. It had followed him to stop him now, had waited all this time, had passed on all those opportunities to finish it now of all times?

Dean huffed, groaned, tried to go on but the bird spread its wings as if to halt him in his track, didn't make a move to get out of his way. Its claws were digging into the soft earth underneath its feet, anchoring it steadily to the spot.

Dean looked up at the animal, wanted to shoo it away, wanted to fucking shoot it even, when suddenly the eyes of the bird flashed yellow again. The sight of discoloured flames engulfing the beady black eyes made Dean jerk back in surprise, made him lose what little equilibrium he'd gotten and his arm slipped out from underneath him, chest and upper torso plummeting the short distance to the ground.

He didn't know if he'd made a sound or not, didn't know if the bird was still there, if it finally started to fucking pick on him. He did try to shield his eyes, afraid that the sharp beak would find the softest part of his body first, starting its carnage there.

The smell of earth and long past rain filled his nostrils as his face pressed into the soft ground, the soil strangely cooling and comforting against his searing hot skin.

Sam…

He wanted to see Sam again, just one last time, tell him that he was sorry that he hadn't done anything, hadn't said anything when John had basically kicked him out the door.

_If you leave now, don't bother coming back…_

That had been John's words, not Dean's, but he hadn't done anything to stop dad from saying them, hadn't done anything to hold Sam back, either.

_If that's what makes you happy…_

Those had been Dean's words, and he'd come to regret them so many times ever since.

But some part of him had meant them, too. With all his heart.

He'd only ever wanted Sam to be happy...

Dean wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all, the unfairness of losing his brother, his father seemingly leaving right along with him. John was still there, physically speaking, but somehow he seemed farther away than Sam at times…

Life wasn't fair, that much was for sure, and it certainly wasn't fair that Dean should be brought down by a fucking _bird_, in the end. He'd taken down monsters and ghouls and werewolves, even, but had to succumb to the strength of a feeble bird now?

But only a second later it didn't matter anymore as the pull of his screaming body became too much to fight and he slipped almost willingly into the abyss.

OoOoOoO

_He heard the faint echo of his son's tinny voice coming from the inside of his pocket, Dean talking to him, or calling out to him, John couldn't be sure._

_Just another minute…another minute. Just until John was sure…_

_He crossed another row of stalks and was barely able to skid to a stop when he was suddenly face to face with the biggest fucking black dog he'd ever seen in his entire life._

OoOoOoO

John threw himself into reverse so fast, he actually heard his joints pop as they protested the sudden change in movement, the too sudden stop as sinews and tendons strained to keep the bones of his knees and ankles in their designated positions.

Well, he wasn't the youngest anymore…

He almost stumbled over his own feet as he backed up a step, then another, bringing his arms up in one smooth motion, gun gripped tightly, the muzzle aimed right between the beast's eyes.

The dog's head was huge, and John stupidly remembered taking his sons to the zoo, once, a million years ago. They'd been standing in awe in front of a huge grizzly bear sullenly padding up and down in its way too small enclosure. Its head had been wide and thick, flaws loose and dripping with strings of sloppy saliva as its head was swinging from side to side, its enormous body carried by giant feet, toes turned slightly inwards as if the legs were slowly bending under the animal's outrageous weight.

Sam had been stunned, mouth gaping open – and John remembered Dean making fun of his little brother for days after, but the sight of the huge animal, suspended behind bars, all feeling of danger, despite its size and reputation, washed away from the look in its sad and broken eyes.

The dog was even bigger than the bear, John thought, its head larger, longer, jaw wider. The teeth alone were almost as long as John's fingers, gleaming white at the tips, stained slightly yellow and brownish at the tops, where they protruded from bloody gums. Its fur was short, lying sleek and close to its body, tinged in the darkest, deepest shade of black John had ever seen. At night, the animal had to be close to invisible.

The only thing giving it away, no doubt, were its piercing red eyes – and the stench. It reeked so unimaginably death-like, John actually felt and tasted bile rise in his throat.

John wasn't squeamish – never had been, not after everything he had seen and done in his life, but this…this was something different entirely.

John stumbled back another step, adrenaline rushing through his body, making him tense up, quenching all shivers or shakes that would no doubt fight for control over him as soon as he could clear his head a little – had time to assess the situation in its entirety.

The dog's fangs were bared, flews pulled back over its impressive, sharp as knife teeth. Its ears were turned backwards and plastered to its head, giving it a look that nightmares were made of. Even John's, and that was telling something, considering.

John took barely a second to adjust his aim, to make sure that he wouldn't miss, then pulled the trigger.

He emptied the whole clip into the dog's head, right between its eyes, still firing when the hammer hit on an empty chamber and still he couldn't stop himself.

It took him a considerable amount of time to realize that something was not right.

Or…not the way it was supposed to be.

The animal jerked under the impact of John's bullets, its head whipping back a bit…but it wasn't reacting anyway else. It didn't charge, didn't howl in pain or anger, didn't try to dodge the bullets or retreat back into the sea of wheat surrounding it, no doubt able to hide even its huge body within seconds.

It didn't even blink.

That was when John realized another thing that was off.

While the dog's eyes were still blood red…they weren't sparkling. They were deep red and swimming underneath a thin sheen of moisture – but there was no _life_ in them. They were dull and already slightly glazed over by death. Actually – they were completely dulled over, John realized once he actually managed to get a grip on himself and stop pulling an ineffectual trigger, stopped seeing red through his own burning eyes.

The beast was dead.

And it wasn't just dead, like, shot right back to its ancestors by John just a couple of seconds ago – no, it had to be dead for a while already.

John carefully lowered the gun an inch, taking a step to the side of the animals head, making sure that its eyes didn't follow him – didn't seize up its prey. They didn't even blink.

Its body was splayed on the ground as if it was locked in a never-ending crouch, ready to pounce – but it never would pounce, ever again.

It was dead.

John released a stuttering breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in. As if on cue, his hands started shaking, trembling, sweating. His head spun wildly and for a moment he thought he'd actually lose it, would actually just drop down from sheer exhaustion and sudden lack of tension and fucking _relief_.

The black dog was dead.

And there was only one person who could have taken it down.

"Dean…" John breathed, ripped out of his momentary paralysis as he remembered his son.

He dug trembling and uncooperative fingers into the pocket of his jacket while still keeping a death-grip on his gun, impotent as the gesture was, his eyes still on the dead and already stiffening body of the dog as he gave it as wide a berth as he could manage.

His heart was doing crazy flips inside his chest, fear and relief in turn making him dizzy and lightheaded.

Dean had killed the dog – which was good, no, it was great – goddamn awesome. John had known that his son could do this…

And then it hit him so hard, it almost drove all air from his lungs – the sudden "other" meaning dawning on him in full fledged clarity. It could also mean that the carcass of the dog was the real reason for the crows to circle this stretch of field…that Dean was not close by at all.

John had no idea how badly Dean had really been hurt, how close to collapsing he'd already been when he'd managed to off the black dog. There was no way to tell how far he'd managed to make it _after_ killing the creature before going down. If he'd managed to make it even roughly towards the car at all or if he'd just wandered aimlessly into whatever direction his hurt body and mind had sent him. If he wasn't close by, he could be anywhere.

_He could be anywhere._

Shock was a strange thing – it might have served to let Dean wander for miles even before he'd finally succumbed to his injuries – and the possibilities of him getting lost in this field that stretched to the horizon and beyond were uncountable.

"Dean!" John bellowed into the phone once he got into a firm grip, pressing it to his ear till it hurt.

The other end of the line was silent.

"Dean…Dean come on, talk to me. I'm here…I found the dog. You killed it. I found it. But now I need to find you. You need to help me find you, son…"

John's voice begged, pleaded - and he didn't care.

But the line stayed dead.

Damn.

"Dean, please…"

John checked the reception, found it alright and intact, the call still connected, only there was no one on the other end to talk to him.

Maybe the connection had broken somehow after all, maybe the phone had frozen or something. It could happen – right? John was no expert, but it _could_ happen…

John punched the end button almost brutally, waiting for an agonizing five seconds until he was sure that Dean's phone would have ended the connection, too, before hitting Dean's speed dial again.

The dial tone sounded hollowly in his ear, but his son didn't pick up.

No. Nonononono.

"DEAN!" he yelled out in frustration, but the only response he got was the angry croaking of the crows overhead as they drew their circles wider and wider, no doubt bringing a safe distance between themselves and the slightly unstable man on the ground.

"DEAN. Answer, goddamnit."

He punched the call-button again, listening to the dull ring on the other end – another call going unanswered. John was just about to hang up and try again, when he heard the faint notes of AC/DC's _Highway to hell_ sounding from somewhere far off to his right.

Instinctively he winced at the song that he didn't want to hear anymore, Dean playing it up and down on the drive over to this town just days ago, no doubt intending to drive his old man insane. John wasn't opposed to the song in general, but it had been the constant repetition, the ear-splitting volume that had John ejecting the tape and throwing it onto the backseat in the end.

Damnit.

He had to wait an agonizing 30 seconds, already running again, trusting his ears and sense of direction to not lead him astray, after being put through to voicemail, ending the audible melody somewhere in the field in front of him.

"Hello, this is Dean. Leave a message."

"Dean!" John hollered as he ended the call, the name an order, phone pressed to his ear again, dialling again, waiting for the dial tone to sound, waiting for the familiar guitar riffs that would lead him to his son.

There – right there. To his right. Much closer now.

Much closer.

John let it ring, following the music, cutting through the rows without caring anymore. The music grew louder and louder – in sync with his fast beating heart – his ever growing apprehension. Suddenly, the body of a large, black bird burst through the thicket of wheat a couple of feet in front of him, the bird flapping its huge wings as it tried to gain height in the narrow passage between the stalks, struggling to propel its body upwards.

The damn crow again. There was no telling if it was the same bird as before, but somehow…

The wind created by the beating of its strong wings brushed over John's damp face, chilling his skin and raising goosebumps over his cheeks and down his neck. He shrank back for a second until the bird cleared the vegetation, finally able to spread its wings fully and taking off to join its companions in the sky overhead.

Another step forward, a little more hesitant now, fearful almost, and John saw a dark brown boot and part of a leg stick out from a thick cluster of stalks on the ground in front of him.

The boot was scuffed and dirty, the jeans ripped and saturated with blood, the leg tilted slightly to the side, toe down, heel up.

And it wasn't moving.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Don't hate me - I know the end is evil. But I hope it makes you stick with me till next week...because you do want to know if and how John finds Dean, right? Right?_

_Again I want to thank you all for the awesome, overwhelming reviews - they leave me at a loss for words, mostly. Thank you so, so much!_

_I hope you'll stick with this story a little longer!_

_As every week - thanks for taking the time to read, and bless you if you find the couple of seconds to leave me a review on top of that. It's the best reward, ever, for putting a little piece of me out there with every chapter I post. _

_Hopefully till next week - take care!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 5**

OoOoOoO

_John let the phone ring, following the music, cutting through the rows without caring anymore. The music grew louder and louder – in sync with his fast beating heart – his ever growing apprehension. Suddenly, the body of a large, black bird burst through the thicket of wheat a couple of feet in front of him, the bird flapping its huge wings as it tried to gain height in the narrow passage between the stalks, struggling to propel its body upwards._

_The damn crow again. There was no telling if it was the same bird as before, but somehow…_

_John could feel the wind of its wings brushing over his damp face and he shrank back for a second until the bird cleared the vegetation and finally was able to spread its wings fully, taking off to join its companions in the sky overhead._

_Another step, a little slower now, fearful, hesitant and he saw a dark brown boot and part of a leg stick out from a thick cluster of stalks on the ground in front of him. The boot was scuffed and dirty, the jeans ripped and saturated with blood, the leg tilted slightly to the side, toe down, heel up._

_And it wasn't moving._

OoOoOoO

"Dean…god…no. _NO_."

John basically skidded to a stop on his knees next to his fallen son.

He dropped the phone – the gun too, and yeah, he would have given either one of his sons hell about dropping their guard, but right this moment John couldn't have cared less.

"Dean…"

Dean lay awkwardly slumped on his stomach, one arm trapped between his body and the damp ground beneath him, the other extended in front of him, fingers closed tightly around the hilt of his gun, as if he'd fallen in the middle of dragging himself onwards. One leg was still bent, toe still digging into the ground, his face hidden from John's view at the moment, but the way he lay still – too still… the way he didn't react to John's voice…

John carefully took a hold of his son's shoulders, scooting closer so he could rest Dean's head on his thighs as he carefully turned him over.

He sucked in a breath at the sight that met his eyes.

The left side of Dean's face was caked with blood, both dried and fresh, a sick looking mask, making him look almost like Two-face in that Batman – movie Dean loved so much. The source seemed to be a deep and ragged gash high on Dean's forehead, splitting the skin and leaving the edges of the wound gaping wide open.

He was still wearing the t-shirt and button down he'd been wearing when going out last night – storming out rather. Both garments were ripped and torn as if he'd been road-rashed, whatever skin visible underneath covered in mud and dirt and partially dried blood.

The shirt had been chequered in beige and green but what remained of the garment now was dirtied and stained almost beyond recognition. John's eyes immediately latched onto the left side of Dean's torso and abdomen. The shirt there…it was beyond dirty, it was saturated in blood. Earth and grime clung to clothes and skin and flesh, immediately slamming into John the realization of not only the severity of the wounds but also the very real danger of infection.

There was no way to assess the whole amount of damage from just looking – but what John saw on that first assessment already stopped him cold.

And still Dean hadn't as much as moved one single muscle.

John didn't want to let go of Dean, feared to relinquish his hold, the first connection after hours of worrying, but he had to check him out, had to make sure there was nothing he missed…

He gently lowered his son to the ground, careful to find a relatively smooth patch of earth to set his head down, careful to not bend his arms and legs at an awkward angle before scooting over, practically perching over his eldest in his need to feel – to see. To find out if he was even still alive.

"Dean…come on, wake up, son." He whispered feverishly as his fingers slipped through the slick grime covering Dean's throat and neck as well as every other available inch of skin on his body, searching frantically for his pulse point.

John's eyes were on Dean's face the entire time, waiting, hoping…glued to those absurdly long lashes that lay slightly damp against Dean's too pale cheeks, the faint freckles that stood out way too prominently on the bridge of his nose and against his cheekbones.

John didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, even, as he waited, heart beating wildly in his chest…waiting, feeling...

There…right there…

A beat.

Then another.

Thready and faint, but definitely there.

John dropped his chin, eyes squeezed shut as he allowed himself a second to be relieved –releasing a stuttering breath that came out more like a stuttering sob.

Dean was alive.

Barely so, but alive nonetheless. Everything else John could deal with, he was sure of it.

But it wasn't over – far from it, and John gave himself no more time to deceive himself with feelings of safety, of false hope. Dean was hanging on – but he was doing so by barely a thread. And he wasn't going to get any better if John didn't get him out of here - and soon.

John gave himself another precious second then – one second to run shaky hand tenderly through his son's tousled hair and down his cheek, wincing at the coldness, the almost wax-like texture that immediately registered against his fingertips.

That feeling was enough to spur John into action.

He needed to get Dean out of here, but first he had to check that he was not doing him any more harm when moving him.

God, where to begin?

John reminded himself of his own training, the one he'd instilled into his own sons, and it finally was enough to have him shut off his mind and get to work, methodically checking over Dean's still lifeless body.

He gingerly yet decidedly pulled aside Dean's shirt, tore away the last remnants of the t-shirt clinging to Dean's torso.

His left side was mangled – mauled…there was no word for it that John could think of.

It looked bad.

God, did it look bad.

John thought he detected the imprints of large teeth where they'd scraped through tender flesh and muscle before they'd found enough leverage to latch on and get a firm enough grip on Dean's body. There was no telling how many wounds there were on first sight, no way to determine how deep or serious they really were, they all blended into each other seamlessly. They were painted over with blood and dirt – deep gashes and stab-like craters, scraped off skin and flesh barely clinging to Dean's body anymore.

He wasn't bleeding heavily anymore, just sluggish trails of fresh blood snaking out between crusted edges of blood and dirt - which could be both bad or good, depending on how you looked at it. Good because, well, he wasn't _bleeding_ out anymore, bad because it could mean that there was too little blood left inside him anymore… From the pasty look of Dean's skin that possibility was the more likely one, too.

Fuck.

There were two additional deep grooves running along Dean's left hip and loin and upper thigh as well as what looked like deep bite-marks on his left calf and shin. From what little he could see underneath the loose flaps of Dean's torn jeans John could make out the imprints of the two huge canine-fangs as well as the four smaller ones nestled in between. Dean's whole leg from the knee downwards seemed bloated, distorted, skin pulling taut over hideously swollen flesh.

"What were you, his goddamn chew-toy?" John whispered, nerves jittering as he felt his lips curl into an involuntary smile – bearing witness to the situation that left him bordering on being hysterical.

Luckily enough, Dean didn't react at all although he probably would have appreciated John's grim sense of humor, intended or not.

Dean's right side at least seemed to be relatively free of any deeper wounds, just scrapes and bruises adorning the pale flesh of Dean's chest and abdomen.

Good…or rather…better than the rest.

"Alright…so…we can handle this. I can handle this." John muttered to himself, finding his own voice strangely rough, foreign – and certainly no help at all, so he kept his mouth shut, teeth clenched until his jaw hurt.

It looked bad, sure, but they were going to make it out of here. John wouldn't allow himself to believe anything else.

With newfound determination John tore off his jacket and button down, dumped the contents of his duffel on top of the jacket as he roamed round for the first aid kit. His hands were shaking, his knees jelly as he unpacked several packs of compresses and unscrewed the bottle of holy water. He wrenched a knee underneath his son's side and gently pulled him partways onto his lap again, careful not to jostle the injury, actually thankful that Dean was not awake and aware for he couldn't even come close to imagining the pain he had to be causing him. Dean's head lolled limply against John's thigh, tilt of the head exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat. It gave him a very foreign look of frailty John wasn't used to seeing in his eldest.

Not like this, at least. Dean's violability manifested itself differently, usually, could be glimpsed only for those who knew him well, knew how to read even the faintest tick of his jaw, the slightest flutter of lids, the briefest flicker in his eyes.

But right now he basically bled _helplessness_, driving into John the painful realization that his son was only human, was not the invincible soldier that had stood by John's side whenever he'd needed him to, in the past.

Gently, John shifted Dean's head on his lap so it wasn't turned at an awkward angle, brushing the pad of his thumb briefly over his son's forehead as he did so.

Dean still didn't stir but moaned quietly underneath his breath, the sound escaping his slightly parted lips barely audible yet somehow booming like a shotgun blast through John's head. It seemed to be an automated reaction, his subconscious rearing up where his body couldn't.

"Sorry…sorry, Dean. But this needs to be done…"

John bit his lips, one hand clenching hard into Dean's good shoulder as he took a breath, steeling himself, blanking his mind before he poured a generous swig of the holy water over Dean's chest, shoulder and side.

That, at least, drew a reaction out of his son, even though it wasn't the one John had wished for.

Dean gasped as the liquid seeped in between the edges of his wounds, a sizzling sound and the smell of burnt flesh immediately filling John's nostrils, making him gag. Dean tore his eyes open suddenly, his left one only opening to a tiny slit, yet his gaze remained sightless as he sucked in breath after breath without seeming to be able to release the air he was pulling into his heaving lungs.

His body went rigid, muscles cording so tight John was afraid he'd tear something.

"Dean…Dean, hey. Easy, take it easy. Deep breaths, Dean, in and out. Come one, you have to take it easy…"

But Dean didn't seem to be able to dig himself out, chest heaving underneath John's grip, sucking in breath after painful, gasping breath.

It had to be the tension of the last hours that were to blame that John didn't react as fast as he'd usually have – under other circumstances he might have seen the problem sooner, acted sooner. But now he watched almost stupidly as Dean's eyes widened impossibly, lips agape and turning slightly bluish as he couldn't seem to find a decent rhythm to his breathing. He gulped, choked, gagged and while he'd seemed impossibly weak and limp only a couple of minutes ago he was suddenly a bunch of coiled muscle and bursting energy as he bucked in John's grip, trying to roll away, to get off…to _breathe_.

"Dean, goddamn it – breathe!"

And then John did the only thing he could do under the circumstances, the only thing he knew to help in a situation like this – only that it hurt John almost more than it did Dean, in the end.

He shifted his son in his grip, levered him sideways over his lap and freed his right hand, placing in the middle of Dean's back, right between his shoulder blades. He dug the heel of his hand in, rubbing it in deft circles.

"Come on, son. You need to stop this…stop it…"

It was a last resort, and John knew it, even though he wished with all his heart that he didn't have to do it. He flattened his hand out on Dean's back and gave a tentative push – an almost slap. Dean stuttered and groaned, but every muscle in his body was still locked – and he still wasn't breathing.

John had to slap him three times, with the flat of his hand, wincing along with every single stroke, imagining the pain he had to be causing with his actions, knowing that that it was the only way…

"BREATHE…"

The last hit finally broke the deadly paralysis.

Dean gasped, shuddered and finally, finally expelled a swell of air that had been held prisoner inside his chest, spitting it out as if it was burning him only to breathe in noisily again a moment later.

He trembled under John's grasp, suddenly shaking so badly that John had to readjust his grip, settling Dean against his abdomen, keeping him angled sideways while holding up his head, making sure that he wasn't going to suffocate in his desperate attempt to even out his breathing.

Painful grunts and sob-like pants pressed out between Dean's parted lips, spilling out of him like water rushing over the cliff in a rumbling waterfall.

It was agony to listen to, but at least he was breathing…he was breathing again.

"Shhh…it's Ok, just take it easy, easy, son. Deep, slow breaths, Dean. That's it. It's alright, I've got you…I've got you."

John pressed Dean close without crushing him and making breathing even more painful, even harder for him. It took all his self-determination, everything he'd ever known – but when Dean finally slumped down, body not rid of the stifling tension but too spent, too beaten to keep up the fight anymore John was there, full on, and more focused than ever before.

Dean in pain but awake and even just remotely aware he knew how to deal with.

When John eased his son back down to the ground he realized that Dean had clamped his hand into his father's t-shirt, had grabbed the hem of it and fisting it so hard, the fabric had actually torn in his grip. John leaned over, tried to establish eye-contact, attempting to catch his son when he was clearly still falling.

John freed one of his hands, balancing his son on his lap while grabbing his chin and turning his head gently towards him, watching Dean search his face fruitlessly for seconds, minutes it seemed. His eyes were roaming aimlessly, the left one almost completely obscured by the purplish swollen flesh, long lashes bunched together as sweat and blood and tears of exhaustion and pain collected them into little tent-like shapes. He blinked rapidly, fanning little splatters of moisture from his lashes down over his cheeks and lips.

After what seemed like an eternity they finally almost snapped into focus, latching onto John's face with such fervour, the older man could barely refrain himself from snapping back his head, taken aback by the sudden intensity with which his son clung to him.

Dean's throat worked desperately, lips moving, but it took a while till a sound made it out, sounding so broken and raspy John immediately wished that Dean hadn't said anything at all.

"D'd…"

"Yeah, Dean…it's me. It's alright. I'm here now. Everything is going to be alright. You're going to be fine…" John soothed with forced composure.

Dean fisted John's shirt even harder, attempting to roll over and towards his father, groaning in apparent pain but still determined to go on, unwilling to let it stop him. John tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder, holding him steadily on his good side.

"No…no, you got to stay like this for a little while, Dean. I know it hurts, but I have to wrap up the wounds first. Alright? Are you listening to me, son?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, muscles rolling underneath the skin of his neck and shoulders, jaw working visibly as he fought to roll over, fought to ease out of his father's grip. John was surprised at how much strength Dean was able to unveil all of a sudden. Just a couple of minutes ago he'd been out cold, too weak to talk or move and now he was fighting nails and teeth.

He had to be in shock, blood loss and pain making him hazy and unreasonable. But that was something else that John knew about his eldest…knew how he reacted to intense pain, how he got when confused or feverish.

Right now it was that knowledge exactly working in John's favor as he simply held on tighter, leaning even closer to Dean's face, holding his head steady and forcing his eyes to stay focused on his own face.

"Dean…look at me – look at me. That's it, alright. Look at me, Dean…you need to relax, alright? I know it hurts, but you need to relax and let me help you. I'm trying to help you - and I know its hard, but I need your help so I can wrap this up and then we'll get you out of this fucking field, alright? Dean?"

Dean's visible pupil was bleary, glazed over with pain and exhaustion, lines of agony grooved deeply into his forehead and around his eyes. His cheeks were flushed yet ice cold in John's grip, lips slightly parted as they puffed out quick, short bursts of air, accompanied every so often by a moan of desperate pain. His gaze flittered to the side, searching their surrounding aimlessly for a second before latching back onto his father.

"Where'd…it…go?" he breathed, pain lacing heavily through every single word.

John furrowed his brows, unable to tear his eyes away from Dean's, afraid that he might lose him again if he did. As long as he kept looking at him…

"Where did what go, Dean? The dog? You killed it, remember? You killed it. I found the body, its definitely not killing anybody anymore." He couldn't help the hitch in his breath, the almost awe-like tone his voice adopted.

His goddamn, stubborn as hell son had done it. He'd shot the giant black dog, injured as he was himself. He'd ended it. And probably saved countless people in doing so. And he'd done it all by himself because they'd once again let their own personal feelings come between them, let them get distracted and so fed up with each other, that Dean hadn't even asked for John's help on this hunt.

Which they still needed to talk about – later. Much later.

Dean's eyes flickered around again, slightly confused still but he was getting more coherent by the second. John could basically feel reason once again seep back into his son's mind.

"Bird…black bird…yellow eyes… 't was…watching me, st'nding 'n my way…"

The bird, right. The one Dean had been talking about on the phone as well - the one John had seen, that had led him the way...? John felt a stab of fear slice through him as his son's mention of the yellow eyes but got a grip again quickly. This was nothing but feverish delusions…nothing else. Dean didn't know…

"There's no bird here anymore, Dean. It flew off when I found you. You're safe now. I've got you…"

He gingerly started to peel Dean's hand out of his shirt to get better access to Dean's side again. The wound didn't look much better now that he'd poured the holy water over it. Much of the blood was still sticking to torn skin and flesh, bits of dirt and parts of torn fabric as if glued in and around the whole area. But there was nothing he could do apart from putting on an impromptu field dressing to make sure Dean didn't bleed out or get any more dirt into the wound.

"Sammy…" Dean started again weakly, but John cut him off.

It sounded way too painful, the way he pressed the simplest of words out like it took a monumental effort and Dean really needed all the strength he could get for their way out of here.

"Listen, Dean. Sam's not here. _I_ am. And I'm gonna take care of you. I got to wrap you up…you've lost a lot of blood. We need to get you out of here as quickly as possible. Try not to talk, alright? Just stay still and let me handle this."

John kept talking - pitching his voice low and soothing, setting up a lulling cadence that he knew his son would respond to, if nothing else worked. Years and years of training and patching up his injured son that was too stubborn to admit he was hurt in the first place had taught him how to handle it – how to calm Dean down without letting on he was doing it.

Sometimes, orders and harsh words were the only useful weapon…sometimes Sam's way of soothing and lulling and calming Dean down would work better than anything John had ever come up with. John wasn't a talker, usually, preferred to go about this task in determined silence, clenching his teeth and blanking his mind…much like Dean did whenever it as his turn to do the tending and caring.

John didn't like to admit it, but right now was definitely the time to stand above his own stubborn pride and give his son what he needed, not what his father found more fitting.

He talked about something random – anything really, as long as he was simply talking. The content didn't matter, nothing mattered as long as he was just there and talking. And maybe, just maybe, he was doing it for himself as much as for his son. Maybe. Just a little bit. Maybe he did it for all they had lost, for Mary and Sam and the life they'd never had…

John was talking throughout the arduous task of trying to patch up Dean's wounds as best as he could, shutting off his mind to the hisses and grunts of pain emanating from his son. He tried to ignore the painful rolls of breath, the jumping and twitching muscles in Dean's neck and arms, tried to ignore the way Dean's skin felt way too cold yet still slightly sweaty underneath his finger.

He tore open pack after pack of gauze, pressing them gently against the wound and wrapping their last roll of elastic bandage around his son's chest and abdomen, feeling Dean's breath stutter and hitch with every touch, every jostling move he had to subject his body to.

Mumbling words of apology and reassurance John wound his button down around Dean's thigh, wincing at the thought of how the garment was definitely anything but clean, hating the through that he had to bring that into contact with the wounds. But he'd run all out of gauze or other medical supplies to wrap the wounds with, so he had to be inventive.

He had nothing left for the bite on Dean's calf – and even though he knew that it would be hell – probably even impossible - to walk for Dean as it was, he decided that he'd have to take the risk and leave the wound open. It wasn't bleeding that badly…but John was pretty damn sure that the leg was actually broken, if the swelling and discoloration were anything to go by.

The car wasn't all that far away…they could make it…they _would_ make it. They simply had to.

He'd carry Dean if he had to.

"I gotta clean the leg now…" John said, his voice portraying a calm he didn't feel at all as he once again uncapped the bottle of holy water, realizing there wasn't much liquid left. It would have to make do, though. Once in the hospital, there was no way John could get away with dousing his son's wounds with holy water anymore, and he'd really like to see their faces if he explained to them that he had to purify the wounds, that simple antibiotics and anti-inflammatories wouldn't be enough on this kind of injury, no matter what.

Dean shook his head, eyes squeezed shut tightly, swallowing so hard his Adam's apple looked like it was trying to fight its way out of Dean's throat and make a run for it.

"'kay…" he finally offered, despite the fact that his head was still shaking, his body betraying his brave words loud and clear.

"Just a second and it'll be over." John mumbled.

"Sure…"

Dean hardly had any strength left anymore, the fight almost gone and still the scream, albeit muffled by his arm as Dean buried his face into the crook of his own elbow was more than John thought he could handle. With tears clouding his vision John watched the clear water seep into the deep puncture wounds, watched pinkish froth bubble up again a second later.

John kept talking, made reassuring, soothing sounds that would have had Dean snapping at him any other time, but only served to bounce off his never-ending stream of groans and curses as his body shook from the shock of the holy water hopefully eating away the supernatural essences the creature had left behind.

John spent the last bit of the water on Dean's leg, waited until the frothing and steaming stopped, waited until Dean just moaned quietly in exhaustion whenever the water hit the gaping edges of the wounds. Small tremors chased themselves all over his body, the leg twitching every so often, but while the limb stayed still from the knee down, John tried his best to keep the seizing upper thigh as still as possible.

Definitely broken, he had no doubt about it anymore. But he had nothing here to use as a splint.

Dean lay slumped in exhaustion and it wasn't till John finally stopped talking, stopped _not thinking_ to look again when he realized that Dean had closed his eyes, his lips moving imperceptively. But he seemed to have been listening, seemed to have been tuned in on his father's ramblings because only seconds after John stopped working on his son's bleeding body, simply sitting there, slumped and drained for a second, did Dean stop mouthing unheard words and opened his eyes again.

"Hey…" Dean rasped out, swallowed, then went on with a voice shaking badly yet sounding slightly more coherent than before, or so John thought. As if the pain and the shock had driven all confusion out of him for the time being. "Hey dad…You ok?"

John couldn't help himself, he had to bark a laugh, low and gravely and full of disbelief. A very, very sarcastic laugh – and maybe a tad unbelieving.

"You're impossible, Dean, you know that, don't you?" John took a breath, calming himself.

His sons had that effect on him, time and time again, but usually it would be Sam leaving him on the verge of a verbal sparring, while Dean just left him speechless. With the simplest of things Dean could annoy John to no end, only to at the same time comfort him with a stupid display of familiar behaviour and gentle concern.

Dean would always be the one standing between John and whatever chose to get in his way, even if it was his own son. Dean would be the one to patch John up when he came back from a hunt bloody and bruised, when he came home from getting shit-faced-drunk.

Dean would always be there.

And he always cared.

"So…that a…yes…?"

John knew that the question was one born out of habit, sure, but was first and foremost an expression of Dean's real, actual concern for his father's safety.

Dean needed to know it - needed to hear it for his own peace of mind. Knowing that those he loved were alright was imperative for Dean's own wellbeing.

"Damn it Dean, yeah. I'm alright"

"Good…" Dean nodded, sighed, a shuddering breath escaping him together with a soft groan as he was too late to bite off the sound he'd no doubt had rather kept inside.

"Good…"

"I just…what the hell have you been thinking, Dean?" John could have slapped himself for saying it the second the words left his mouth. But this…it was just a tad too much to fathom, had gotten a little too close for comfort.

He couldn't lose Dean, not now…not ever. But most definitely not now.

He was the only John had left of their fucked up little family.

Mary would kill John if she could see him – could see them, now – what he had done to their sons…

Dean had trouble keeping his eyes open, had trouble staying focused, and that was probably the only thing that let John's comment slip by unnoticed.

"Dad…?"

John couldn't help but shudder at the sound of his son's voice.

As if he'd completely let go – now that his father had found him.

"Yeah, Dean? What is it?"

"…killed it…"

"What…what are you… Oh, the dog. You talking about the dog?"

"Dog…killed it…" he rasped, and John thought he detected a hint of childish pride in Dean's voice. Not that he didn't have every right…

"Yeah, you did." He said softly, proudly.

"The Crow…gone now?" Dean wheezed, his hand snaking up and over towards his wounded side, and John gently plucked the hand away, guiding it back towards where it couldn't do any damage on the insufficiently treated injuries.

"Yeah, the crow's gone. But Dean, we need to get you out of here. You need a hospital. This is too serious for me to take care of myself." John hedged carefully, knowing his son's disdain for hospitals, his flat out refusal to go to one most times he'd been injured in the past. Both he and Sam had had a hard time dragging Dean into various emergency rooms along the way, had only been able to do so without a fight from the middle Winchester when he'd been unconscious or unaware.

"'lright…" The easy compliance was the worst acknowledgement of how bad Dean was off.

"OK, lets get you up then."

John shifted Dean's weight in his arms, tried to find a good enough grip on his body, the remnants of his clothes to haul him up. Dean tried to help, but John found his son almost like dead weight in his arms, found him swaying and trembling by the time he'd managed to haul them both to first their knees, then their feet.

Dean breathed fitfully through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring while thick beads of cold sweat broke out all over his face. He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut through the process, but John thought he saw something else but sweat sneak its way down his son's cheeks.

"Don't put any weight on your left leg, son…think it might be broken." John said quietly, and Dean spat a wet laugh that trailed off into a pained groan.

"Ya think…?"

John adjusted his grip on his eldest, helped Dean sling his right arm around his shoulder while reaching behind his back to slip one of his thumbs through the belt-loops of Dean's jeans. It was a good thing Dean was a little smaller than him, even though he probably matched John's weight by mass of muscle, but at least like this John would be able to manoeuvre his son more easily than otherwise.

"Ready?"

John barely waited for the weak nod of confirmation before taking the first shuffling step.

The first step had Dean faltering against John's side, slumping heavily against his father's body, a sharp cry of pain escaping Dean's lips as his leg buckled underneath him, unable to carry his weight. He caught himself, clutching onto John's shirt, managing to level his weight to his uninjured leg while John basically lifted his son in his arms, helping him to stay upright.

This was useless.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that it wasn't going to work. Not like this. Not with Dean's leg broken the way it was. Both hunters stood there, wheezing with either pain or exhaustion, Dean's body heavy in John's arms, against his side.

At this rate, even if John somehow managed to carry him, they'd both drop long before they'd made it to the car.

Just one step…one tiny step closer to safety. It amounted to nothing…nothing at all.

Unfortunately though, it was exactly the distance it took them to come into serious smelling distance of the black dog's rotting body.

John felt his throat clog, his eyes tear up. He heard Dean gag next to him and felt even more of his son's weight shift into his arm.

"God…one hell…of a smelly sucker…"

John huffed, mind reeling to figure out a way to get as far away from the body as possible and at the same time getting to help as far as possible.

He needed to call for help, he simply had to. Dean wasn't going to walk out of this field, not under his own steam, and the way he was hanging onto his father's side, John was not going to manage to haul him to safety either. Not with the injuries making it almost impossible to carry him, either. But they couldn't very well call an ambulance and have them find this…carcass of a monster splayed in the middle of a field, for all the world to see.

"Gotta burn it…"

John startled back to reality with his son's barely contained pain filled voice.

"We can't, Dean. The way these stalks are growing so close to each other we're going to cut off our own way out of here."

Alone, John might have been able to run away from the flames should they decide to crawl into his direction. If they'd both been alright…which they clearly weren't. But of course Dean was right, they had to do something.

"We could…run…" Dean snickered, coughed, then snickered again.

Then he sagged, his good leg simply giving out from under him, folding in and John went down with a grunt, too.

Dean cried out, basically swinging against John's chest as his weight slipped out of his father's grasp a bit before he was able to regain his hold.

John felt the rush of hot breath against his chest, seeping through his t-shirt where Dean's face was practically smashed against his chest. He felt Dean's hot breath, his cold skin against his own and made a decision.

One that he might come to regret later, one that Dean would give him hell for, most likely, but the only sensible one in a situation like this. It also was the trickiest one, one very likely to fail. But John wouldn't let himself believe that it was anything but the right decision, in the end.

They were still a good distance away from the dog's carcass, even though the stench made it smell like they were standing right on top of the damn animal, but John thought – hoped – that it would be enough.

He gently lowered his bleeding son to the ground, readjusted his jacket over Dean's shivering body and made sure that his head rested more or less comfortably on a patch of relatively smooth earth. His hand brushed over Dean's forehead – a moment of tender weakness - and got stuck there for a moment, frowning at the cold and clammy skin, the wax-like look of Dean's usually healthy looking cheeks. He looked almost…

"Dad…what 'r you doin'…?"

Dean's eyes fluttered open, then drifted closed against his will, losing the fight time and time again. But Dean was stubborn to the core – a trait he usually attached to Sam all too willingly but was actually pretty good at himself. So he just opened them again and again, grunting with the effort, wheezing with pain.

Apparently talking still hurt. And John had a pretty good idea where that was coming from. Breathing, too, not to talk about everything else… So, probably broken ribs to add to the array of injuries. His side and shoulder were oozing blood again, already staining the gauze and shirt John had used to wrap Dean's side dark red in places.

"Dad?"

"You'll just have to trust me on this one, son."

Dean blinked at him sluggishly, dumbly almost.

"'course…"

"Alright. You just lie still, try to stay calm and not move, alright? I'll get you out of here, I promise. You just keep breathing, don't give up on me. I'll take care of this."

Dean was about to complain, to probably demand more than just this superficial explanation when suddenly he went rigid again, then curled in on himself while clutching at his side, drawing up his knees as if attempting to protect his abdomen from an unseen attacker. A sharp shout of pain escaped his lips and he buried his face into the soft earth, hiding his face from John's view.

John waited it out with him, held him through the wave of pain washing over him, running soothing circles against his son's taut back.

"Easy, son, you gotta take it easy. I'm gonna get you out of here." He whispered, over and over and over again. Willing his son to believe – willing himself to believe.

John drew in a ragged breath when Dean finally stilled underneath his palm, body going limp but at last as he slipped into unconsciousness - for the moment at least devoid of pain.

"I'll finish this…just trust me on this." John mumbled, soothing Dean's sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead while whipping his phone out of his pocket and punching in the emergency number.

He was still waiting for someone to pick up the call when he already fumbled the canister of lighter fluid out of the duffel, slinging the bag of salt over his shoulder and jogging over to the carcass of the huge black dog.

He doused the body in salt and lighter fluid as he relayed both their position and the condition of his son to the slightly overwhelmed dispatcher on the end of the line, stressing the fact that they needed to get there, fast, because there was something _burning_ close by and he didn't know how long it would take for the fire to catch up with them.

John waited until he heard the dull thumb of rotor blades off in the distance, view of the emergency helicopter sill hidden by the small patch of forest dividing the field they were in and the next before igniting a whole book of matches, throwing it on top of the stinking beast. He watched the carcass go up in angry flames for merely a second before turning around and jogging his way back towards his son.

At least the helicopter wouldn't have any problems finding them – the bonfire a sure enough giveaway of their position. John just hoped that the wind wouldn't turn too suddenly.

He found Dean, once again awake and out of his mind with worry as he'd smelled the fire, smelled the burning carcass.

And he'd heard the rotor blades of the helicopter, knew what it meant.

It took every last ounce of persuasion, every bit of calming reassurance to keep Dean from trying to get up and make a run for it. Which he would have tried – even though he most definitely would have failed.

John tried to stay calm, to stay the voice of reason throughout the helicopter's descent, keeping himself from snapping at his son and ordering him to lie still and just suck it up as he took in Dean's wide eyed fear at sight of the aircraft. It would have been hilarious, really, if it wasn't so damn serious, thinking how Dean would laugh in the face of death and hell and whatnots, but completely freak out over the simple thought of being flown the few short miles to the next hospital.

John knew that talking would have helped, most likely, now as well as it had before, but he couldn't come up with senseless talk anymore, his resources run dry all of a sudden. The only thing he could think of was a cover story…an explanation for what they were doing here, in a field in the middle of nowhere, next to the carcass of a burning animal. The story was fantastic, to say the least, but he had Dean repeat it back to him nonetheless, hoping that his son wouldn't be forced to relay it anytime soon. But it gave Dean something to focus on, and he latched onto the distraction with a fierce willingness bordering on desperation, that had John admiring his son's strength.

John had served in a war, goddamnit, had seen more comrades injured and killed than he ever wanted to remember. He didn't think half of those men had suffered as heroically as his own son, though.

Dean's eyes grew wide again all of a sudden, and John snapped back to attention, realizing that the helicopter had drawn close enough for Dean to see and probably even feel the wind of the rotor blades as it touched down a safe distance away from them, the grain stalks bending under the onslaught of wind the rotor blades whipped up.

He was thankful for the wind because it definitely pushed the flames away from their location, was thankful albeit still unsettled by the swift way that the paramedics took over and practically snatched his eldest out of his grasp once they arrived.

But, more than anything, he was thankful that, even though it was also the most frightening sight in the world, Dean again lost consciousness before they loaded him onto the helicopter, already hooked up to machines and tubes, his face smothered by an oxygen mask. His too cold body was wrapped in a warming-blanket, his leg encased in a padded stabilizer, the first unit of blood struggling to substitute for the outrageous amount lost already.

John was thankful that some of the responsibility was taken away from him while at the same time refusing to relinquish his hold on his son completely.

He was going to keep his son alive.

He'd promised him as much. Had promised Mary and even Sam…before he'd closed that door in his face, pushing him out of their lives.

He'd start right now and work on the bigger picture once he'd got the current situation under control. Maybe they'd find a way to make this work, after all. Maybe they could find a way to make it – just the two of them.

They could do this without Sam – they had to. They'd kinda run out of options.

Besides, maybe it was even better the way it was – Sam tucked away nice and safe at school, away from the hunt. As long as he kept his head down, didn't draw any unwanted attention to himself… It might actually turn out to be the one and only thing truly good coming out of the whole fucked up situation.

John had worked long and hard on making himself believe that.

And he just hoped that Dean would come to accept that, too, one day.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Ok, I gotta say...I feel so very honored by all the wonderful, flattering reviews and the unbelievable support I'm receiving right now. I think it's the best reward, ever, for any writer, of course, but especially for me, who always had (and still has) such serious doubts about writing and posting in general. And it means even more to me, seeing how I don't write this in my native language... I know it's far from perfect, but I'm making myself believe that it can't be that bad...I'm doing my best, I swear._

_All I'm asking is for you to stay with this story, even though it seems like now that John has found Dean everything is going to be alright and the story will be finished soon. Those of you who've read one of my stories before know, that I usually don't leave it like that... As I mentioned before, this is mainly a story about John and Dean dealing with Sam leaving, so there's something more to come (and, of course, we still need to find out what exactly happened to Dean...and about the crows...). If you want to stay to find out, you'd make me so, so happy._

_Thanks to all those who read, and special thanks to all those, as always, who leave a review, or a PM or whatever else. I'm sorry if I didn't answer all of last weeks reviews yet, but believe me if I say that each and every one of them made me smile from ear to ear._

_You guys are wonderful, it's so much fun writing for you!_

_take care and hopefully till next week!_


	6. Chapter 6

_I still don't own them. _

_I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter:_

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 6**

Five hours.

That was how long Dean had been in surgery.

Another twenty four hours – give or take - had passed since and still Dean hadn't woken up.

One whole night and one whole day of waiting and he hadn't moved, hadn't as much as flinched, his face frighteningly impassive underneath the disfiguring bruises covering his face and neck.

Dean had always been a pro at hiding his true feelings, only ever betrayed by his almost overly expressive eyes – but this now was certainly the most frightening thing John had ever seen in his entire life.

He knew Dean's face twisted in pain, in fright, in concern, in sheer panic, knew how the lines around his eyes deepened when smiling or laughing, knew the way his brows drew together and bunched over the bridge of his nose when he was lost in concentration. He knew his son's face hiding away his pain and spilling it out in the open. But he didn't know his son's face as _empty_ as this.

It scared John more than he'd ever thought possible.

Dean lay pretty much flat on his back, left leg raised by some weird kind of contraption that had John wincing every time he just looked at it. His arms lay lax on top of the sheets, fingers slightly curled, wrists bandaged, the small plastic tube of an IV port sticking out between the fold of gauze on the back of his right hand.

The room was filled with medical equipment and awash with the low yet insistent sounds of machines beeping and hissing and dripping, all trying to keep his son alive. And still Dean hadn't moved. All those hours in the field, fighting for his life and now he'd just given up?

John never had been good at waiting.

He hadn't been able to ride on the helicopter with Dean – the space had been limited and they'd needed whatever room they could get to take care of his son, so John had grudgingly agreed to let them take his son away from him. He'd run back to the Impala, having to take a pretty big detour in order to avoid the fire that a handful of fire trucks had still tried to put out completely.

Once at the Impala John had had to pass by a pretty distraught looking man in his late fifties, wringing his hands, looking completely and utterly overwhelmed at the sight of the burning field. John guessed it had been the farmer the land belonged to, and he'd had about five seconds to feel sorry for the man, sorry about the damage done by Dean and John, the helicopter, the fire trucks. But the moment had passed as quickly as it had come. John was in danger of loosing so much more… Besides, the dogs were dead, which added up to dozens of lives saved, for sure. Hell, who knew, maybe even the farmer himself, or his wife or kids could have been the beasts' next victims…

John had gotten into the Impala and onto the road without ever looking back.

But when he'd made it to the small hospital in town he'd been informed that they didn't have a landing patch for a helicopter there, that they'd taken his son to the big clinic a couple of towns over. It was the place better equipped to dealing with the kinds of injuries Dean had suffered from, too.

So John had driven the approximately two hour drive in about 75 minutes, grateful that he hadn't been pulled over by the police.

Once he'd finally gotten there, Dean had been moved to the prep room for surgery already, and there had been no way to see him again…before…this.

The minute they'd let him into the recovery room after the surgery – to see Dean for just a minute, as they'd put it, John had made himself at home in the tiny cubicle that held his son's still unconscious form, had plonked down on the first chair he'd gotten his hands on and had flat out refused to move ever since.

At some point they'd just accepted it.

Which was all the same to John, 'cause he wouldn't have left anyways, but it did save him some growling and threatening and possible trouble with hospital security. It was bad enough that he was just a tiny bit worried about Dean Metcalf's security possibly not covering this whole mess quite the way it was supposed to. John just hoped that it would keep them above water long enough till he could haul Dean's ass out of here.

Which, right this moment, seemed more than a little doubtful.

Dean looked a mess, now even more so than he had with all the dirt and grime still hiding the true extend of his injuries. They'd had to close the gash on his forehead with 10 stitches, the rest of the wide area scratches and lacerations covered with some sort of ointment and layers of gauze. The whole left side of his face looked swollen and discolored, the left eye swollen completely shut and John knew that it was only the beginning, that the rainbow hues on his son's face would get a lot worse still before they ever had the chance to heal, to fade into nothing again.

John watched in rapt fascination as Dean's doctor, a Dr. Susan _something-or-other,_ now removed the thin sheet that covered Dean's torso and lower abdomen, which had so far been kept invisible from his eyes. He hadn't even dared to look, hadn't really cared, either. All that had mattered to him was the beeping of the heart monitor and the steady hiss of the ventilator that announced that Dean was in fact still in there, somewhere, still holding on.

John had to work hard on not wincing at the sight of his son's tortured body.

"That grizzly sure did a number on your son, Mr. Metcalf. I've never seen anything quite like it." The doctor said, raising the large pad of gauze covering Dean's entire shoulder, peering underneath the slightly sodden piece of fabric.

"I take it my colleague filled you in on all the details?"

John didn't like her tone, didn't like the clipped professionalism, the detachment of her voice. As if she didn't care who was laying in that bed in front of her. Which she probably didn't. She was a doctor, a professional, saw pain and injury on an every day basis. She couldn't afford to emotionally care about every one of her patients.

And usually John didn't given the teeniest, tiniest damn about being cuddled and sweet talked, but this just was a bit too much, even for him.

It was bad enough that the good doctor hadn't even found the time to give John as much as a quick rundown of his son's condition, had left the deed to one of her assistants, who was probably every bit as capable as she was, and still it had served to piss John off to no end. Still did.

"Well, why don't you run it by me again, make sure that nothing got lost in that little telephone game of yours…"

She halted in her examination of his son's body, shooting him a look that would have served to melt ice on anybody else but him, most likely. But John Winchester was as good at this as she was, maybe even better. And apparently it took her only a minute or two of silent battle of wills till she accepted that fact, too.

With a faint sigh and a quirk of her lips that could be interpreted as both annoyance or amusement, she finally returned to run her hands expertly over a couple of long sutures along Dean's side, dabbing at some secretion that seeped out between closed edges of the wounds.

"There are deep bite marks in his shoulder, most going down to the bone. It seems like he fought back pretty good, though judging from the condition of his hands and arms in general. There is a handful of defensive wounds, cuts and bites, but also sprained wrists and grazed knuckles that look like he actually tried to fight off the animal with his fists…"

John had to smile an involuntary smile at that, despite the fact that there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, despite the kind of baffled and slightly worried look that reaction drew out of the doctor. Clearly, she had no clue who she was treating there, what Dean really was capable of. Dean _would_ try to fend off a black dog the size of a grizzly with his fists, and it wouldn't even serve to surprise John in the slightest.

It made him oddly proud, seeing how his son had done this – and succeeded in the end.

Still John bit back the comment that had started to form on his lips, deciding that sometimes silence was the best way to handle his fatherly pride.

"As I said - both wrists are sprained, but not broken, which is more than I can say about a couple of ribs on his left side, which unfortunately haven't fared quite as well. Despite what we first feared, his lung haven't been punctured, only bruised. There are more bite- and tear marks and cuts on his left side, his hip and loins and upper thigh. Some run very deep, tearing through deep layers of muscle, and we had to work with skin crafts from his other hip and thigh to replace some lost tissue on the surface. Next to the obvious damage to his skin and muscles there was also some blunt force trauma…internal bleedings. We managed to repair the damage without having to remove any vital organs, but it still remains to be seen how he'll handle the trauma."

John nodded numbly, ignoring the fact that he'd been given the rundown on his son's various injuries more than once before already. He'd heard so many different versions of it already, he was anxious to get the actual doctor's point of view, since she'd been too busy, somehow, only feeding him bits and pieces to keep him dormant for the time being. But somehow this version now didn't make him feel any better – far from it.

He sat up straighter in his chair to see better what she was doing. He knew that at least some part of the surgery had been used to fix some tearing _inside_ his son, something to do with his kidney…he hadn't really caught it all at the time. But _internal_ damage always screamed serious, no matter how you put it. It also meant a much longer recuperation time – John had come to know that part of the deal with absolute certainty.

John had to hold himself back at the sight of her hands continuing to move deftly over Dean's ravaged body, prodding and probing gruesome looking wounds and discolored patches of bloated skin. A quick look at Dean's face showed that he was still out of it, no reaction to the seemingly rough handling registering on his pale features and still John couldn't help the feeling of protectiveness that overcame him whenever strangers touched one of his boys, especially when they were in no position to fight back. It didn't much help that they were at a hospital – where they were supposed to help his son, where they definitely knew what they were doing - and had very likely saved Dean's life already.

"We still are worried about some bloating in his abdominal region, the swelling hasn't gone down at the rate we were hoping, but we're monitoring it closely, and so far his condition hasn't worsened, so we are hopeful that the residual swelling will recede by itself with time."

She was done pressing around on Dean stomach, fixed the gauze pads on shoulder and side in place again haphazardly before removing the thin sheet used as a blanket entirely, exposing Dean's lower body. John flinched as he realized that Dean was in fact completely naked, now with the sheet gone, and while he knew that it didn't really matter he still knew that it wouldn't sit very well with his son's sometimes falsely placed feelings of modesty.

Nothing the doctor's hadn't seen before, sure – nothing a large amount of women in general hadn't seen, for sure - and still it somehow felt wrong. John understood that they hadn't bothered with one of those hospital gowns that were open in the back, since pretty much all of Dean's body was at least partly covered in bandages. Like this they had a lot less work dressing and undressing him all the time.

John knew.

He just had to make sure that they would bring at least a pair of pants or something as soon Dean woke up again.

The bruising and the cuts started on Dean's side and abdomen and proceeded to run down over his narrow hips and loins to end about a hand above his left knee. The whole limb was heavily swathed in gauze and bandages which the doctor took time to remove and throw aside, once again probing and poking, picking at some of the stitches that had been placed over the deepest cuts and gashes. Here as well, the areas around the sutures were red and swollen, oozing a mixture of red and yellowish fluids.

The black dog seemed to have tried to get a hold on Dean's hip, but had apparently found it impossible to carry him like this. So, in the end it had decided to latch on to Dean's left calf had finally gotten a good enough grip to drag him off by his left limb. The bites there were deep and ragged, not only grazing bone but actually breaking the tibia in two places. It had to have hurt like hell. John could only hope that at that point Dean had been either too drugged on adrenaline, or too out of it to really notice.

The doctor's voice ripped John out of his brooding thoughts.

"The leg, as we've told you before has been broken twice. The force transmission it would take to do that with one single bite…I've never seen an animal, save for a shark maybe, that could do that…" She threw John a look, doubt and suspicion heavily coating her words.

John could only offer a half-shrug, half frown.

How the hell could he explain?

"Besides, even if we disregard the fact that there hasn't been a wild grizzly living in these parts of the state for the last 5 decades…those bite-marks…I'd have put my money down on them being canine rather than those of a bear."

John tried to keep his face as neutral as possible.

"Wouldn't have believed it myself…but I saw what I saw." He stated flatly, hoping to give her a little of that intimidating glare that always managed to shut Dean up good – most of the times.

She didn't seem to be half as impressed as his son, though. Sam would have loved her.

"Maybe it would have helped if we'd been able to see the bear…I still don't understand why your son burned the animal…" she said, the frown on her face making John angry.

She had no right… Besides, what difference did it make? He could understand the police probing and asking questions, but what business was it of hers? She was there to treat his son - as was her profession, not question about how it had happened.

"As I already told the police…" John offered quietly, lethal almost. "I don't know why he burned it. He had a flare gun on him…I guess he shot it with that, and the thing just went up in flames. I'm pretty sure at the moment he didn't care to preserve the body for you to gape over."

She looked as if she might call his bluff, might continue to question him but apparently bit her tongue at the last second.

And it really didn't make a difference to her. She had to treat his son's injuries, make sure that he made it through this. The rest wasn't any of her concern. Maybe she told herself that, too, because finally, after a silent minute of contemplation, she nodded.

"We had to realign the tibia, fixate it. The other open wounds on shin and calf had to be medically cauterized to remove some of the infected tissue and skin. All in all, he's been incredibly lucky to have survived – and to have kept the leg…looking at the amount of blood he lost – the damaged tissue and the infection from the dirt that his gotten into his wounds."

John nodded, licked his lips as she probed the deep puncture wounds on Dean's leg, which lay elevated in an air-cast to keep it steady yet still open for inspection. Several tubes ran from that wound as well as from the deepest wounds in his abdomen and shoulder to bags that hung from a hook at the side of the bed, draining the wounds of pus and blood. It looked gruesome. John had a hard time looking at them without giving in to the urge to throw up.

"He's on intravenous antibiotics and very strong painkillers right now, and we'll see how that works for him before we can decide on how to proceed with the treatment in the future. He's running a pretty high fever now, which was to be expected of course, considering the trauma and stress he's gone through. Considering all this, though, the surgery went pretty smoothly."

She was finally done poking at Dean, and John found himself relaxing slightly as she took a step away from his son, leaving the dressings unfastened as she buzzed for a nurse to change the bandages.

"Why won't he wake up?" John questioned, surprised by the impatience coloring his own voice, wondering briefly if she thought it to be a reactions to his son's _unwillingness_ to resurface, or if he put the blame on the doctors, blaming them for not doing their job right.

Her face clearly showed the fight she had with herself over his gruff tone, but in the end her medical training won the fight, no doubt, deciding to blame his snappiness on the worry for his son.

"Well, as I said…the trauma has been considerable. He's in shock – obtained a pretty impressive concussion, too. If you combine that with the anesthesia from the surgery as well as the blood loss and fever and pain medication - it's enough to knock anyone out for good for some time."

Her smile was genuine, John thought, and sympathetic, and still he couldn't get himself to smile back.

"But he _will_ wake up?" he pressed, willing her to answer him, willing her to give him a promise he knew she couldn't give.

She wasn't fazed by his attempt at intimidation, John could tell, but the friendly demeanor changed a little, shifted back to the cool professionalism she'd portrayed before.

"I can't give you any guarantees, but if…as soon as his fever goes own and his blood level reaches normal standards again he should be able to fight his way back. I won't lie to you about you son's condition, Mr. Metcalf – it still is critical at this point in time. There's shock and blood loss and pain to consider…his injuries are quite severe, as you no doubt know. But he's in the best hands, and he's young and strong. If nothing unexpected happens, he should be able to beat this."

John finally looked away from her, fastening his gaze on his son's pale face, only his cheeks flushed a bright red from the fever, his lips cracked were they weren't split open, mouth slightly open and lips closed lax around the tube of the ventilator that fed him with oxygen.

The tug at John's heart was crushing. He felt like he was so about to lose the one son he still had left – and once again it would be his own damn fault. He'd never get used to either of his kids looking as weak and helpless as this…

"Why is he not breathing on his own?" John finally asked, voice suddenly soft, cracking a little and he pretended to cough, blinking away treacherous wetness that had somehow seeped into his eyes.

"He was breathing on his own when he was brought in here. But with the broken ribs it got pretty hard on him - certainly painful to do so, especially seeing as we can't wrap his chest up the way we would like to. The wounds need constant attention and can't really be confined like that. He was holding his own almost all the way through surgery which is no small feat, to be honest, but it all became a little too much towards the end, so we decided to leave the ventilator in for the time being, help him take some of that strain off him. As soon as he gives signs that he'll wake up we'll remove the tube, let him breathe on his own again."

The doctor sounded softer again, gentler. Somehow that made John even more impatient.

"So, you saying he won't wake up for the next hours for sure, right?"

She furrowed her brows in confusion, seizing him up hesitantly.

"I'm pretty sure he'll be out at least over night as a matter of fact, yes." She hedged.

John nodded deftly, getting his composure back with the motion.

"Alright then. I need to go back to our motel to pick up our stuff and get settled in a new room in town. I'll be back in about three, four hours tops."

She nodded, waiting for him to get to the point.

"If anything happens in the meanwhile, you call me."

It wasn't a question, but an order, and John glared at her with his most determined look until he had her nodding her approval, even though she clearly was highly irritated by his sudden tone of command.

"Of course we will."

"Good."

Two nurses stepped into the room at the doctor's back at that moment, momentarily stopping in their tracks as they sensed the air of tension in the room. The doctor turned towards them, giving them a soft nod and they proceeded to wheel a cart into the room, preparing to change Dean's bandages, clean him up, but not daring to advance any further with John still sitting there like a pit bull protecting its owner.

John glared at them for good measure, painfully aware that they had done nothing to warrant his rejection, that they were only trying to help his son, make him heal faster. But old habits were hard to shake, so he pinned them with a death glare as he got up from his chair, taking the one step that brought him right next to his son's bed.

He only broke eye-contact when his hand touched down on Dean's forearm, hot and dry beneath his fingers and he leaned over till his face was barely inches away from Dean's.

There were small lines of pain etched into Dean's features, around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, present even when unconscious and doped on more pain meds than John could imagine. And still he looked more peaceful than he had in a long time – and so damn young. Unconsciousness scratched 10 years off Dean's surface, at least, and it surprised John to no end that he hardly had any recollection of seeing his son like this, ever before.

He'd always been so…grown up, despite his immature antics at times. Whenever John thought of Dean, he saw his eyes, mainly, eyes that had always transported so much weight, so much responsibility…it was hard to pin that look to anything else but a grown up body.

John allowed his thumb to brush over the back of Dean's hand once, almost ripping out the needle being pinned there as he did so, quickly breaking the touch again. He'd never been good with touching, always managed to do more damage than good in the end. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd touched either one of his sons except for a stray brush by in passing or the accidental touch of fingers when being handed a weapon or cup of coffee.

They'd stopped hugging a long, long time ago.

When Dean had been little, he'd at least welcome him back home with a hug so tight, John always had pretended to be crushed with it.

A long, long time ago.

Now, if he was lucky, he'd get a hello that wasn't meant to shoot arrows into his very core.

He wanted to say something, tell his son he'd be back soon, to keep on fighting, but somehow words were lost again, as if he'd used them all up soothing his bleeding and whimpering son in the middle of a field only yesterday. Somehow, he'd been bled dry right along with Dean, it seemed.

In the end, all he managed to do was reach over to pull the sheet back over Dean's waist again, avoiding the laid free wounds in his hip and thigh but covering him up as good as he could, saving some of his dignity. Then he quickly walked out of the room, not looking back as the nurses finally got to work.

He'd be back soon.

OoOoOoO

He drove much more slowly this time.

He'd cleaned out the room without incident, wiping out any evidence that the Winchesters, better known as John and Dean McMasters had ever been there to start with. He'd paid for the room with his AmEx, dumping the card as soon as he was out of town, the limit exhausted. They'd have to pick up new cards soon. Obviously, Dean Metcalf's card wouldn't survive his owners current stint in the hospital, and John himself only had two minor cards left that would be at the end of their credit only too soon.

Maybe he'd manage to raise some cash playing poker again, since it looked like he'd need to stay holed up in that town for yet a while to come till he could get Dean out of the hospital and on the road again.

John had always liked playing poker better than pool, even though he thought he was pretty good at that, too. But somehow, the fun had left him since Dean had become better than him at that. Not that John would ever admit to it to his son, and he certainly still had some brilliant moments where he'd manage to crush his eldest without mercy at the table, but more times than not he'd be outplayed by his own son, and that just wasn't any fun at all.

He tied to remember the last time he'd held a job, a real job that actually paid real money. It had been a while, that much was for sure. But John didn't plan on staying long enough to warrant something steady, he was dead set on getting Dean out of that hospital in as little time as possible, get them back on the road again as soon as his son was over the hill. He sure as hell wouldn't be up to driving yet, but Dean was stubborn as hell and as strong as an ox, he'd _want_ to leave the minute he was conscious again. John was sure of it. He wouldn't allow himself to believe anything else.

The ringing of a phone on the passenger seat of the Impala startled John out of his reverie. For a moment he was left dumbfounded, not recognizing the tune that brassily sounded from somewhere in the depths of his jacket, but it took only a moment to catch on.

_Highway to hell_.

That blasted song that Dean used time and time again to drive him crazy.

Dean's phone… The hospital hadn't yet given John his son's belongings, but John had insisted on getting the cell at least, too afraid that one of their contacts would call, too worried that, maybe, there was something on it, a message or a picture that would make the hospital an/or police suspicious should they stumble across it. Luckily, their current aliases identified them as father and son, so John had a lot less trouble both getting information as well as his hands on his son's meager possessions.

Where the hell had he put it?

He rifled through the pockets of his jacket which lay crumbled on the seat next to him, keeping one hand on the wheel, one and a half eyes on the road as he desperately dug around till his fingers finally closed around the metal body. He flipped it open before he even had it fully extracted, bringing it up to his ear in one swift motion.

Maybe it was the hospital calling…

Only, the hospital wouldn't call Dean's cell, would they? They had John's number, he'd made sure of that, would call him in case his son's condition had changed…

Before he could even think it through, though, he had the phone pressed to his ear, hastily guiding the Impala's front wheels back into the correct lane before going straight into the ongoing traffic.

"Y'allo" he barked into the speaker, neck bent awkwardly to hold the mobile in place.

"Uhm…hello? Who's there?"

The hesitant voice on the other hand was distorted by static and hushed as if the caller was speaking behind a veiling hand.

"What do you mean, who's there? Who's calling?" John snapped, temper rising as he felt his irritation grow.

"Hold on a minute…connection's pretty bad…"

John heard the caller shuffling around, heard rustling of clothes and rapid steps that sounded hollowly off some kind of concrete floor in what appeared to be a hall or big room.

John waited impatiently, was just about to shoot something at the caller and hang up on him when he made out a voice on the other end of the line, talking to the caller.

John thought his heart positively stopped beating the second he heard the other person call the caller by name.

"_See you later, Sam."_

John gripped the phone so hard, he almost snapped the casing clear in two.

Sam.

He hadn't talked to his son in over one and a half years. For months Sam hadn't called him once. While John knew that Dean had, on occasion and in secret given his little brother a quick call, just to say hi, to let him know that they were even still alive, he was pretty damn sure that Sam had never been the one initiating the calls, though.

He was almost pretty sure.

But maybe not 100%.

What did he want now, of all times? Why call now?

John considered for a brief moment, for a few seconds of paralyzing fear and madness, to just hang up and not pick up again, should Sam try and call him again.

But at the same time his _need_, his simple need to talk to his youngest, to just hear his voice again, hear that he was OK, was more overwhelming than his need to prove his point.

"Sam?" John finally managed to croak into the phone, hoping that the connection was still bad enough to blame his stuttering voice on that rather than his own emotions overwhelming him.

For a second, it seemed that he had gotten his wish as the line stayed silent, distorted breathing the only answer to his desperate question.

But then…

"Dad…?" Sam's voice was surprisingly clear all of a sudden, louder too, and John flinched involuntarily at the crystal clear sound of _Sam_ reverberating through his head.

"Dad, is that you?" he sounded flustered, definitely taken by surprise.

John swallowed down the urge to just hang up once and for all.

Too late for that.

And he really, really wanted to hear his son's voice…_needed_ to hear…

"Yeah, Sam. It's me."

_I'm glad to hear you. How are you doing? How is school?_

John closed his eyes for the briefest of seconds, conscious that he was still on the road all of a sudden, fastening his eyes towards the windshield again.

"Uhm…hey… What…how are you?" Sam finally offered, an all too apparent sense of unease coloring his voice a slightly higher pitch than usual.

OK, awkward.

But what had John expected, really, after the farewell he had given his own son?

"I'm good. I'm good." John offered meekly, wanting to slap himself for the standard answer that could have come from Dean rather than John. But what could he say, really?

_I miss you? WE miss you. I'm sorry for what I said, please come back home again?_

Yeah, right. A snowball's chance in hell…

"How about you…school going alright? You're grades good enough to hold your scholarship?"

John winced as he heard the words leave his own mouth.

He could basically _feel_ Sam frowning.

And he didn't answer the question.

Oh yeah, definitely fuming already. But he at least had the decency to not unload it right this moment. They still weren't comfortable enough around each other for that, apparently. John felt his lips twist into a fierce smile that he didn't feel.

When exactly had he forgotten how to talk to his own son? Both his sons, as a matter of fact. He'd never had trouble talking to Dean, or at least that's what he had thought. But lately it seemed that even with his eldest it was as if they speaking two different languages without an interpreter there to translate for them.

"Why are you calling?" John finally asked, cringing again.

_Oh yeah, much better. Make him believe you're real happy he called. _John chided himself silently.

Sam didn't answer right away, but he was positively boiling, John knew it.

"I got a call." He finally said, voice hard and cold as stone.

"Someone left a message on my voicemail, calling from Dean's cell, telling me to call back as soon as I had the chance."

At that, John's heart once again skipped a beat or two.

"When was that?" he asked, mind reeling, trying to think if, at any point during the last two hours that he'd been away from Dean's bedside, he hadn't had access to his own phone, might have missed a call from the doctor calling about Dean's condition. But they wouldn't have been able to call from Dean's cell, then…

"Don't know…sometime yesterday around noon. Maybe early afternoon, I'd say. I was in class, couldn't pick up. I had classes all afternoon and then again today, only managed to check my messages now…"

John shot a quick look at his watch.

11.39 PM.

Sam hadn't managed to check his messages for over 24 fucking hours? What if this had been an emergency? Hell, it _had_ been an emergency. What if Dean had needed his brother? What if John had needed his son… What if someone had called him to inform him that either his brother or father were dead…

"Dad…is something wrong? Something wrong with Dean?" and just like that, Sam's voice was that of a ten year old again, desperately worried about his brother being sick or hurt – or worse.

Well, he wouldn't have had to worry if he'd damn well stayed where he rightfully belonged…

"Your brother is fine." John heard himself say, felt the heat rising in his cheeks at the bland lie that was a little overboard, even for him.

Sam was silent again. John had no doubt that he could smell the lie ten miles against the wind.

"Where is he? I want to talk to him?"

"He can't come to the phone right now…he's…busy."

Smooth, real smooth.

But Sam wasn't buying any of it.

"Who was that calling me, then? They didn't give me a name, but it sounded somewhat official." Sam hedged, but a challenging note had crept into his voice, a tone that John knew only too well. He'd give the kid about two minutes, five tops and he'd be in full on accusation-mode.

John wasn't going to go there. Not today. He was tired, had had a long day – a long couple of days. He simply wasn't going to go there. If he told Sam what happened to Dean…they'd be at it again within seconds at the most. And John couldn't do this until he as absolutely, positively sure that Dean was going to pull through.

"Your brother lost his phone. We were on a hunt, impersonating FBI agents. Sheriff found his phone on the crime scene, thought it belonged to the perp. I just went to pick it up."

Sounded reasonable. Despite the fact that Dean wouldn't lose his goddamn phone on a job or John would have him strung up and whipped to the next week. Among other things. But it was a pretty damn good cover story, considering John had had to make it up within mere seconds, still being in shock hearing from his lost son and all…

"Dean lost his phone?" Sam asked, incredulous, torn between wanting to believe him and doing what apparently came most naturally to him – namely, doubt his father's every word.

"On a hunt?"

"That's what I said."

"And you picked it up at…midnight?" Sam queried, unbelieving.

John sighed. Why was the kid always questioning everything? And how Dean had managed to endure that annoying habit for years and years without tying him up and gagging him for good he had no idea.

"What do you want, Sam?" John sighed again, suddenly bone tired.

He still had to drive another 30 minutes at least before checking into the first motel he could find, take a quick shower and then return to the hospital to be there for the son that he had left. He really couldn't do this much longer. He was so tired of playing pretend.

"I want to talk to my brother." Sam stated quietly.

"I told you, he's busy. He's not with me right now."

"Somehow I don't think you're telling me the truth."

That about did it.

"Well, doesn't really matter if you believe me or not, Sam. You're in California while we're on a hunt and Dean sure as hell doesn't need you to distract him from his job. You had a choice and you threw it away. You live your life, we live ours - Dean lives the life he chose. You can't come calling once in a blue moon and expect him to stand at attention, dropping everything he's doing just because you want him to. You've made your choice. Learn to live with it."

John had to stop, had to suck in a breath that never seemed to be able to feed his suddenly starving lungs. His own outbreak left him dumbstruck all of a sudden.

It wasn't the first time he'd said those things, but mainly he'd said them in the privacy of his own mind, only once out loud in the closed confinements of a motel room, when Dean had gone out to find himself some _distraction_. And only once had he said them to another person – some poor woman – a bartender who'd taken pity on him. He'd been thoroughly wasted then, and luckily she'd hadn't been far behind, too, for when they said their awkward goodbyes the following morning, she hadn't mentioned one word of his drunken blubbering.

John had kept quiet ever since.

And he'd certainly never planned on telling Sam.

He heard Sam take a deep, stuttering breath on the other end of the line, wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and wish it all away. But he was still driving, and he was far too much of a realist, despite all the unimaginable things he'd seen in his life, to know that things said could never be taken back.

Just like sending Sam away back then.

_If you leave now, don't bother coming back._

Even if they somehow managed to make up again, a long, long time in the future, John knew that those words would still stand between him and his son – between him and both his sons, for the rest of their lives.

Those same words that stood between him and Dean now, like an invisible wall, a wall that somehow seemed to grow bigger and bigger every day, pushing his eldest away from him with frightening consistency.

"If I ever find out you lied to me…if something happened to Dean and you didn't tell me…" Sam left the threat hanging in the air, but John had heard enough.

Sam knew.

John didn't think that anything he could say right this moment would make things better, so he just kept quiet. Maybe he'd learned from his mistakes, now that it was too late, now that Sam was gone for good.

Dean had once told John that he and his youngest were too much alike, that neither of them was able to just shut up and listen to what the other had to say, to goddamn _think_ before he spoke words dictated by anger and pain.

Hindsight was a great thing…but it certainly didn't help him at all in his current situation, didn't make this any easier to deal with.

John was almost grateful when Sam was the first to break the screaming silence.

"Tell Dean to take care of himself." he said, his voice dull and pained, and a second later the line was dead.

"Yeah, you too." John said, to the silent phone before slamming the phone shut and firing it into the back seat with an angry growl that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

But it wasn't.

He didn't need Sam - _they_ didn't need Sam.

They could learn to live without him.

And Sam certainly _was_ better off without them.

The only question was, if they were better off without him, too…

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I've given up trying to understand why this story works the way it does for you guys, I'm just so glad you like it, and there's not much more to say, really. _

_This came at a time when I was seriously doubting myself, and it's the best incentive, ever, to keep it up as long as the show is still on the air. I dread the time when it's all over and nobody will want to read about the Winchesters anymore...but till then, I hope I don't manage to mess this up somehow._

_I can't ever thank you enough - but THANK YOU nonetheless. It comes from the heart, believe me!_

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will come back for the next installment - next week, if my muse and computer and RL in general don't bail out on me!_

_till then, take care!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 7**

OoOoOoO

Julie liked the night shift in the ICU.

It usually was pretty quiet around here, even though the clinic was very well equipped and definitely one of the biggest in this part of the state. But they didn't have that many emergencies stationed here. Most people still preferred the huge and, in her opinion, impersonal hospital in the state's capital.

She did her rounds as usual, walking through the five occupied rooms on the ward, most of which housed people she actually knew, people that had even been inside her parent's house at one point or another. This wasn't a small town by any means, but it still was pretty personal. She liked that.

The last room on her round this night was that of a stranger, though. Dean Metcalf. Certainly a stranger in town, but a stranger she'd have very much liked to meet outside of this hospital. She guessed he usually was a heart-throb, a looker, definitely a ladies man, despite all the ugly bruises and horrifying wounds that disfigured his body and face at the moment. If his father was anything to go by…that one definitely wasn't too ugly himself, even though he wasn't quite within her age-class.

Dr. Powell, Dean's physician, had told Julie to take special care of him, monitor him closely, make sure he was holding up alright. She'd left special instructions to call her, no matter the time, if anything out of the ordinary happened.

So, Julie felt very much obliged to give Dean the special care Dr. Powell wanted her to give him. Her job certainly provided her with worse chores than that.

She entered his cubicle quietly, a little relieved to find Dean's father still gone. He was a good-looking man to be sure, probably charming as well - if he wasn't worried out of his wits about his son. It certainly was easier to check on her patient without him around.

The room was semi-dark, the only illumination coming from the dim fluorescent tube running along the length of the wall over the patient's bed.

Immediately upon entering the room, Julie could see that Dean wasn't sleeping peacefully anymore. Only about thirty minutes ago, when she'd left him to check on the other patients, he'd been completely still, eerily motionless, eyes closed and face a mask of absolute oblivion and peace.

Now, his face was screwed tight in pain. His right eye was wide open, lashes obscenely long and curled and damp, glassy green orb restlessly searching the empty space above him.

Julie took a step towards him, expecting him to react to her close proximity, suspecting he'd just woken up, alone and confused, not knowing where he was. Her eyes still locked on his face, she slipped one cool hand onto his forearm, wanting to sooth him, trying to draw his attention from whatever picture or memory he was staring at.

The reaction her touch caused was entirely different to what she'd intended – what she'd expected.

When her hand made contact, only just registering the clammy feel, the tightness of his skin, he suddenly started trembling so hard, his whole body almost went rigid, as stiff as a poker.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong. Mr. Metcalf…Dean - why don't you look at me…"

He practically gasped, visibly flinching at her words, but his eye never left that spot on the ceiling, never ceasing to roam around the same area, aimlessly, lost. Even the eye swollen shut so horribly was rolling, twitching, searching desperately for something Julie couldn't see. A small, gurgling sound pressed past the tube in his throat, and she could see his lips working soundlessly around the plastic providing him with oxygen.

"You can't talk – we had to put you on a ventilator…"

He gasped again, right hand slamming down hard on top of the sheets, jerking out of her grasp and clawing towards his abdomen.

For a second, Julie was left dumbstruck. She didn't understand what she was seeing, didn't know what was going on. He'd been alright just half an hour ago, what the hell had happened? And why wasn't there any alarms? Surely, the medical machines he was hooked up to had to pick up on Dean's distress?

Just then, as if her thought had only triggered the action, a shrill alarm started to cut through the still of the room, bisecting the air around her like a sharp knife.

One look at the monitors surrounding his body confirmed her suspicion.

Pinning his still flailing arm down to the bed she reached for the emergency-button that was fastened on the bed's metal rail.

This didn't look good at all.

OoOoOoO

He came to with a gasp, his lungs seizing, legs and arms and whole body rigid as if molded out of stone all of a sudden.

He knew his eyes were open, knew it from the blur of light that made it hard to focus, from the immediate nauseating headache that rocketed into his skull and latched on just behind his eyes, seemingly squeezing every single nerve ending tight.

He hurt.

God, did he hurt.

It felt like a slab of concrete had been dropped onto his abdomen which was hard and swollen and painful to an extent that made every movement close to impossible. He wanted to roll up and die, curl up and not think anymore. But he couldn't do that.

He needed to get up…needed to get away.

He needed to call someone, anyone…Sam, no, dad. Sam was gone – at school. Where he wanted to be. Dean needed to call dad, have him come, have him help him. He needed help with this, goddamnit. One hell of a hunter he was.

Somewhere in the back of his brain there were faint memories, distorted pictures…a black dog, a black bird, yellow eyes, an ocean of wheat and mind-numbing music…his dad…

It was all there, but the pictures were all scrambled up, and he didn't know how to put them into the right order, the right perspective.

He needed his dad here, talk it all out, get help sorting it, making it _understandable._ Dean had always been good at deciphering puzzles, but this now was a little bit too much…too much. Even for him.

He struggled to sit up, determined to get his bearings, get his shit together and get moving.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

His lungs were struggling to work but he couldn't, try as he might draw one goddamn breath into his starving lungs.

Something was crammed down his throat and he was unable to dislodge it, unable to breathe past the object that somehow managed to slip past his lips.

He wanted it out.

He wanted to breathe.

He wanted his father.

He _needed _his brother.

God, did he need his brother bad.

And then, there was the distinct feeling of someone there, someone holding his arm and his head and his chest, holding him down and talking to him, even though he didn't hear a thing. Hands slipped down over his chest, cold air hitting his burning skin like a punch in the face, then something bore down onto his abdomen, fingers like ice picks digging and punching and probing…

He didn't know why someone was touching him, was unable to see through lids that weighed a ton and lashes that seemed as if glued together to imprison him in eternal darkness. And yet the fingers kept digging, pressing, slipping, making him want to scream.

It felt like he was going split open any second, like his abs was an overly full balloon on the verge of popping.

He felt the pain, unimaginable amounts of pain and a pressure in his abdomen that threatened to fold him in half, and then all came crashing down and he was gone again as fast as he'd resurfaced.

He never managed to see who was torturing him, never managed to see where he was, never managed to utter even a single word.

He never managed to call for help.

He was going to die here.

Alone.

OoOoOoO

As soon as he made it back to the hospital, John headed straight for the nurses' station.

It didn't matter that it was in the middle of the goddamn night, that the person on duty probably had no idea what he was talking about, was most definitely not to be blamed for the whole mess up. It didn't matter.

All John Winchester wanted was some answers, and he was going to get them, one way or the other.

It was still way too early for the hospital to have picked up its busy daytime rhythm, even though in the ICU there always were people bustling around, always movement, always sound. There always was the hiss of ventilators and the beep of heart machines and the faint groans of patients in pain or distress. Sometimes John thought he hated nights at the ICU even more than days, because then at least there'd be an overlying blanket of noises that drowned out those others…that drowned out his thoughts.

As expected, there was a single nurse sitting behind the shiny white desk of the station, her nose buried in paperwork.

She looked up expectantly when she heard John's footsteps approaching, her eyes widening minutely in reaction to his probably very grim countenance, John thought.

He managed to soften his face a little, or so he thought, stepping up to the table, hands down flat on the shiny surface.

Her eyes flicked to his hands for a second, then back up to his face.

"Mr. Metcalf."

He merely nodded in response to her greeting, leaning forward slightly.

Sam had once - ok, many times – accused him of using his height and dark looks to pressure people, to intimidate suspects and victims alike, and maybe he'd been right. Maybe Sam had been right about more things than John would like to admit to.

But his act worked, most of the times, so he wasn't going to start changing his MO now of all times.

"Hi…uhm, Julie. I'd like to…you've been here yesterday morning, right?"

He was a little surprised to recognize her face, his countenance immediately softening a little.

She nodded carefully.

"Yeah…this morning too - double shift. Colleague called in sick this afternoon."

John tried to look sympathetic, he really did. Problem was, he was so tired, he doubted he could pull it off even by a long shot.

"So, yesterday morning, when my son was brought in…someone made a call from his cell. I'd like to know why _I_ wasn't informed…why _I_ wasn't called. The paramedics had my number…I'm his next of kin…"

He really thought he'd done a pretty good job keeping his voice even and low, not too threatening, to be sure. The look in her eyes suggested he might not have done such a bang up job, after all, but they soon softened again, empathy taking over. Well, she was a professional. John was sure she dealt with distraught relatives all the time…

"Well, I was the one who made that call, actually. The paramedics that brought in your son gave me his phone when they arrived, said Dean woke up on the flight over, panicked a little. Said he needed to call Sam, make sure he was alright. We weren't sure if Sam had been with him when Dean had been attacked …"

John flinched, his heart clamping painfully in his chest. Over and over again he was reminded of how Dean saw the need to make sure his brother was alright even if he was the one critically injured.

"The paramedics managed to calm him down only in promising they'd call his brother, let him know where Dean was… I'm sorry if we did something wrong, but he insisted…"

John shook his head in frustration.

Of course Dean had insisted.

The stubborn kid had always needed his brother, first and foremost whenever he'd been hurt or in pain. Waking up, confused and in a freaking helicopter sure as hell hadn't served to make him any more reasonable. He'd probably been scared out of his freaking mind.

It stung a little that he hadn't thought to call his dad in a situation like this.

"I'm sorry, sir, if we did something wrong…"

John shook his head vehemently, angrily biting his lips to cut off the sharp retort that had started to build on his lips.

It wasn't her fault they were fucked up the way they were.

"No, it's alright. You couldn't have known. No harm done."

And with that he spun around on his heels, making his way towards his son's room.

He couldn't really blame Dean, it was John's own fault anyways. He'd made his sons depend on each other so fiercely…

"Mr. Metcalf, hold up a minute…"

The nurse was running after him, the soles of her white plastic shoes making light squealing sounds on the newly waxed floor of the hallway. John stopped, turned to meet her halfway. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her eyes skipping between him and the door of the room a couple of feet behind him – the room Dean lay in.

John was too tired to ask, so he just waited her out.

"Nobody contacted you?"

There as something in her voice that immediately raised the fine hair on the back of John's neck.

"Nobody contacted me about what?" he growled, not even pretending this time.

She really looked like she much rather be anywhere else but here…

"Nobody contacted me about _what_?"

OoOoOoO

He knew where he was before he even managed to open his eyes.

A lifetime of waking up in places he didn't remember going to sleep in, unfortunately, had made him sensitive to the sounds and smells around him. Helped him orient himself faster than most others would have managed.

The only difference this time around was awoken by his own body _shaking_ him awake.

It almost felt like one of those magic-finger beds he usually loved to relax on, only that there was nothing even remotely relaxing about the whole situation now.

Hospital.

Smell and sound and feel – a definite give-away - a perfect match.

Pain was strangely absent, or maybe not absent, but somehow subdued, lingering right there around a dark corner, ready to jump him any second.

Definitely hospital.

No place else would leave him feeling so at peace and at the same time panicked out of his freaking mind. For him to wake up in a hospital, it had to be bad. If it was something his dad or brother couldn't deal with…it had to be pretty damn bad.

But he had no clue why he was here…or how he had gotten here in the first place.

The shaking grew more intense, his body shivering almost violently, his teeth chattering as he felt goose bumps chasing themselves over his whole body. And each almost spasm-like tremor there was a small little step towards more awareness, more realization, more pain.

His left hand clamped down onto the sheets he found beneath his fingers, digging into them, attempting to pull the fabric up and over his ice cold limbs. The movement caused something to flare up in his shoulder, a spear of pain, still covered partially by a blanket of painkillers, creeping down towards the tips of his fingers.

A pitiful sound, something between a whimper and a moan pushed up and past his raw throat.

Almost instantly, he felt a presence, familiar and still strangely foreign at the same time drawing closer.

Dean didn't even manage to pull away, to stop yet another moan to wrench itself from a throat that seemed to be lined with sandpaper and filled with liquid fire.

"Hey…easy, take it easy Dean."

The voice was deep, warm…familiar.

Yet somehow…

"S'm…" he rasped, between chattering teeth, the sound of his voice muffled by something covering his mouth.

"S'm…'m c'ld…"

Yeah, that sounded…wrong somehow. He seemed to have lost his vowels there...

Dean struggled to open his eyes, failing miserably.

"No, son…it's me. Dad. Just lie still, stop moving. You'll be alright."

Dad…right. Because Sam was gone. Dean had been hunting alone – and a black dog had gotten him… Dad had found him, saved him. But even the pain of the memory was subdued by the very real feeling of cold, his body seizing with shivers that were beyond his control.

"Your name is Dean Metcalf, you were attacked by a wild grizzly three days ago. You killed the animal, shot it with a flare gun and burned it to an unrecognizable heap. I'm John Metcalf, your father. You called me after you killed the bear and I came to get you, called the paramedics when I realized how badly hurt you were. You're in a hospital now."

John's voice was low and calm, yet fiercely imploring. Giving Dean the rundown, the details – most important to them. Who he was and what happened. They had to get their stories straight, their testimonies matched. If one of them said something wrong it might blow their whole cover, make people suspicious that had no business digging into their past, their lives. Dean was more than aware of how important it was to pay attention, to memorize his cover story. But it was so damn hard to concentrate.

"Dean, you got that? Did you hear what I said?" John's voice was still unnaturally soft, but Dean didn't miss the underlying urgency, the need for him to respond.

He still couldn't open his eyes.

And he was still so damn cold.

"C'ld" Dean repeated stubbornly, as another tremor made his teeth ground together viciously.

"That's just the anesthesia wearing off, Dean. You've been in surgery twice in the last two days. And you never do good with anesthesia, you know that. But you'll be feeling better soon…"

It sounded lame, like John knew he wasn't telling the truth.

"Twice…?" Dean pressed out between chattering teeth, hardly remembering anything after he'd been loaded onto the helicopter – the panic, the pain… He'd woken and had asked for Sam, he remembered that, and he remembered being told that someone would call him.

Shit – he'd have to explain that to dad…

Then – nothing for a while, despite hazy dreams – or maybe not so hazy at all… And then, even more pain…a ventilator in his mouth and down his throat, this unspeakable pressure in his stomach…

"They operated on your leg when you were brought in – had to fix some of the worst slashes as well as some rupture in your abdomen. You were out of surgery again for a while but wouldn't wake up. There was another rupture – you were bleeding into your abdominal cavity. They had to open you up again, fix it. You just woke up from that. I know it's hard, but you gotta just…"

John broke off, biting off the sentence that Dean could finish for him, easily.

_You gotta just suck it up, sit through it, be a man about it._

At least he'd had the decency to not say it out loud.

"…you gotta just relax, try to not fight it, Dean. Just…stop fighting this for once, alright? I'm right here…"

It caught Dean by surprise a little, the gentle soothing tone, the apparent concern mirrored in his father's voice. Not that he hadn't known that dad loved him, hell no…of course he did. But usually the Winchester men showed their affection in a more subtle, a more roundabout way. Usually their concern was artfully masked behind gruff jokes and gentle reproach.

Sam had been the only one good at showing his _girly_ side_, _as Dean had so often put it, had done the hugging and touching and caring routine on a fairly regular basis. While Dean had always pretended to be amused or even put off by it, had pretended to not need it, he really had yearned for the feeling of safety it had given him, the feeling of being important to someone.

Right now Dean would have done anything to have Sam by his side, would even let him hold his damn hand, if it was any comfort to the kid, let him do that absurd _soothing talk_ thing that somehow, strangely enough, always managed to put Dean's mind at ease and lower his agitation a notch or two.

Dean wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

Dad – not Sam.

Sam would know what to do – what to say to make Dean believe him, to make him feel better…

The next tremor tore another groan from him, and a heavy hand settled on his forearm, palm big and calloused…so much like Sam's.

And yet it wasn't.

"Gotta get better, kid, so we can get you out of here soon." John offered, quietly, and Dean knew it was meant as an encouragement, an incentive. He probably would have seen it as one, too, if he wasn't hurting so goddamn much. He'd most definitely see it as one if his brother was thrown into the mix somehow, if he'd be there once Dean managed to walk out of here. But right now it didn't feel like he was walking anywhere any time soon.

Dean wanted water, wanted water and a heater and something to make his body stop shaking like a newborn baby.

He smacked his lips, prepared to ask for something to drink as suddenly muscles seized along his back, pulling his head backwards, exposing his throat and pulling his lips back over his teeth involuntarily with the hiss of pain that was wrenched from his body.

"Easy…" John soothed calmly, his thumb on Dean's forearm running slow, warm circles on his oversensitive skin before abandoning the motion again quickly. As if touching his own son felt foreign to him… Given the past months estrangements…maybe it was.

"Thirsty…" Dean pressed out between chattering teeth, deciding to stick to one-word-sentences for the time being, just to be on the safe side.

"You know the drill, son – no water after surgery."

John's hand just lay on Dean's arm, lending strength and warmth and _care_, and still it wasn't enough.

Never enough.

Dean knew that it was more than he'd gotten most times he'd been hurting when growing up, knew it was all his dad knew how to offer. He knew that, for John, being there and touching him, soothing him meant more than Dean would have ever dared to ask for.

And still it wasn't enough. Not right now.

Sam would have known what to do.

He would have organized some ice-chips, or one of those water stick-thingies that would slowly dissolve inside his mouth – take the worst thirst off at least for a little while. Sam would have found another blanket, a hot-water bottle. He would have sat there and talked, senseless babble, most likely, but he would have known how much Dean relied on sound and noise to keep himself distracted, to keep him sane.

John never had been a good talker.

Besides arguing with Sam, that was.

And dishing out orders.

Those words John handled pretty damn well.

Once upon a time John had been a good singer, Dean remembered that, remembered his dad singing him a good night song every single night, humming to him softly when putting him to sleep, brushing the hair out of Dean's face while his deep timbre easily carried Dean away to whatever dream of childish wonders he'd still dreamed back then. And he still was a good singer, most likely, sure as hell hadn't lost his voice over night. The problem was, that he seemed to have forgotten how to use it to soothe his own sons, somewhere along the way.

Dean didn't remember his dad singing to either him or Sam for a long, long time. Maybe not ever again after their mom had died. He remembered, even as a kid of only four or five, still grieving the loss of his mommy, mute to the point where friends of the family told John to have the kid see a therapist, that he'd wondered how unfair it was that, now that he'd needed to hear his dad's voice the most, it was strangely absent most of the time.

His dad had been grieving, Dean had known that, and still he hadn't understood why John never hummed those wonderfully soothing tunes to baby Sammy when the kid refused to go to sleep long past his bedtime. And because it really wasn't Sam's fault, because he really shouldn't suffer for other people's misgivings, Dean had started to sing to his brother instead. He'd hummed the same tunes with his definitely childish and untrained voice and had found that, however much off kilter, however many times he'd had to repeat the same line over and over because he hadn't known the rest of the lyrics, Sam had come to cherish Dean's singing as much as Dean had cherished John's before.

And Dean, instead, had learned to depend on other sounds, on other words spoken by his father, be it gentle orders or soft inquiries on his little brother's well being at first. Later it would have been inquiries on how research was coming along, on how good he'd learned his Latin, how well he'd memorized a certain chant or summoning or exorcism. And, sometimes, there ha even been a little praise thrown in.

And when dad hadn't been there, Dean had relied on Sam's voice to keep him company, to keep him grounded.

With time, this voice had come to bear more importance, maybe, than dad's ever had.

But Sam wasn't here now.

He wasn't here and he wouldn't come, either.

Dean would have to learn to deal without his brother, would have to learn how to get through this without him. Even though he needed him – now more so than ever.

John was trying, Dean knew, knew from what little he remembered from those torturous hours in the wheatfield, hurt and confused and alone, that John hadn't completely forgotten his care and affection for his son.

He'd done all the right things when they'd mattered the most, when they'd been imperative to keep Dean grounded.

Dad knew how to do it, but he simply lacked the strength or the wisdom or the sentiment of when it maybe might not be imperative, but still necessary nonetheless, to Dean's state of mind if nothing else. Knowing that his dad loved him and cared about him in theory didn't help one bit as Dean lay there, drowning in his own thoughts, in his pain and misery, having no one there to keep him above water.

Dad's quiet affection was enough when Dean was up to par, when he was feeling as fine and stable as he was going to feel under normal circumstances. But somehow it wasn't enough now.

John was trying.

But Dean wondered idly if it ever would come to be enough.

OoOoOoO

Sam had called two more times within the last 24 hours.

This now made it call number three.

John sat on the chair next to his older son's bed, the phone blinking silently in his lap since he'd turned it to mute following hospital rules, staring at the screen that flashed a picture of Sam, hair sticking up at wild angles, cheek squished against the Impala's passenger side window.

John didn't remember Dean taking that picture – had to have been at a time when they'd already been riding separate cars. Ever since Dean had been given the Impala Sam had been riding with his brother. It had suited John just fine. Gave him more time to do research on his own, make some calls, inquire about the certain things without either of his sons listening in.

It had been the perfect arrangement at the time.

Didn't look so perfect now. He'd missed out on so much…

The phone was still flashing silently, tiny vibrations chasing through John's palm as he held the phone closer, staring at the picture of his lost son.

The sounds of bed sheets rustling had John up and aware again in a heartbeat and he instantly scooted closer to the bed, eyes intently trained on his son's face. It was almost as if Dean was _feeling_ his brother's presence, even though it was just through the phone, his body reacting instinctively, it seemed as he quietly started to stir, his brow drawing in confusion and discomfort, lips working silently underneath the still present respiratory mask.

His face still looked a mess.

And John couldn't, try as he might, get the sight of his son's torn and bleeding body out of his mind, couldn't forget the broken voice that had begged John to come and save him…

At least he'd woken up now – hours after undergoing emergency surgery for the second time in a mere 24 hours.

Apparently, he'd regained consciousness while John had been gone to clear out their room, had woken up without really being aware, fighting against the ventilator, most definitely in a great amount of pain. When the doctors and nurses had managed to subdue him again, they'd realized that he was bleeding internally, his abdomen bloated and hard as stone. Bleeding so bad, as a matter of fact, that they had to rush him into surgery again, way too soon after he'd made it out of the first one. Something to do with his abdomen, spleen and kidney – the swelling there apparently more than just a _bruise_. The organs had bled into his abdomen – copiously, and they'd had to stop it.

Had to stop it so quickly, they hadn't even had time to inform John of it. Not that it would have mattered…but it had come as a shock to return to his son's bedside and find him cut open once more, hooked to even more machines, drugged on even heavier drugs.

But Dean was a fighter – if there'd ever been any doubt about that in John's mind, it had been relinquished now once and for all.

He was a goddamn fighter.

And after that second surgery, he'd finally woken up.

It hadn't been easy – far from it, had looked like it hadn't been a hole lot of fun to be sure, but he'd woken up and stayed aware long enough for John to bodily fight the urge to knock him unconscious again himself. Dean would never make anything easy on himself. John knew that. It was a trait that he both admired and detested in his eldest. It made him feel terribly helpless and in way over his head.

John had no idea how people did it, day in and day out, caring for their children without going absolutely insane.

His sons were good kids, both of them, there was no doubt about that. They were responsible and loyal, brave and strong. Mary would be so proud of them. And she'd most definitely kill John, slow and painful, for what he'd done to them in her name.

He was to blame that Dean was acting the way he was, always pushing himself farther, always trying to protect his family, thinking so little of himself at the same time as he sometimes just terribly overestimated his ability to carry everybody's weight on his own shoulders. He'd somehow got it into that thick head of his' that he only warranted his family's love if he put himself last, time and time again.

Dean shifted on the bed, his hand moving sluggishly over the blanket, creeping up towards his wounded side. John leant forward, laying a hand on his son's feverish hot forearm. He felt the muscles underneath his palm twitch and jump, the hand fighting against his weight for a second before going lax again, fingers still scratching against the bed sheet as if Dean was still trying to claw his way onwards, as if he was still on the run.

John moved his hand until his fingers covered those of his son, the gauze wound around Dean's hand and wrist soft against his palm, heat crawling its way even through the layers of bandages. At the initial contact Dean seemed to fight his grip even harder, tried to remove his hand from John's grasp. But this time John wouldn't let him.

He had enough of one of his sons trying to shy away from him, didn't want to let Dean go again, not now. The past days played themselves over and over in his mind, how he'd almost lost his eldest, how he'd nearly been too late.

Dean squirmed more viciously underneath his grip and John realized he'd gripped Dean's hand a little too tightly in his attempt to hold onto him. Funny, how he only seemed to be able to do this, show either of his son's affection when they were in dire danger or so sick they probably wouldn't notice. And, sadly, it was only the only opportunity that Dean _let_ his father soothe him, lately.

John sighed as Dean finally ceased his fight, fingers going lax, parting slightly as if to allow his father's fingers to slip in between, to latch on more tightly. So he did. It felt strangely foreign yet so damn right at the same time.

It only served to show John how bad off Dean really was, letting his guard down like this, displaying a vulnerability, a _need_ that he'd hardly ever showed out in the open ever since John had given him the responsibility of a little brother to care for.

Dean still was bad off, his body a wreck, a long, long way to go still.

But Dean was doing better now – the doctors had assured John of it, even though the kid had barely been awake for more than a minute or two at a time since coming out of surgery. For more than a day now he kept drifting in and out, but was also more aware, too, every time he woke up again.

He still needed _time to heal_, was in a _whole world of pain_, as the doctor had blandly yet accurately put it.

John knew that.

But he also knew that Dean would be able to beat this.

There was just no other option.

The phone finally stopped vibrating in John's other hand, the hand not clutching his sleeping son like a life line and John felt himself relax, watching carefully to make sure that Dean did the same. Dean once again shifted a little, lips working soundlessly underneath the mask before he finally drifted off again, remaining oblivious to his father's impending betrayal.

Once he was sure that Dean was out again John quietly opened the phone's call log, scrolling down the list of received calls.

He briefly fought the urge to just close the phone again and let it be when the sudden flashing sign of a tiny letter on the display informed him that a message had arrived. As if on autopilot, John pressed a button, holding the phone to his ear.

He felt like he hadn't heard his son's voice for decades, even though he'd only just spoken to him less than a day ago. Still the sound of Sam's rich timbre, slightly distorted by the phone's crackling static, had him flinching and trembling with unknown longing.

"Hey Dean, it's Sam. Uhm…but you probably know that anyways. I've been trying to reach you a couple of times, man, but you never called back. I…uhm…I know I haven't been really reliable myself with the whole calling back business, but… I just wondered how you were doing – you and dad. Don't know if he told you, but I talked to him…but I guess he didn't, or else you would have called back already. Anyways…I gotta run again, so…just, you know, give me a call when you find the time. I'm real busy – got exams and reports due and all, but I'll try and pick up this time…or at least call you back as soon as possible, I promise. Just…I hope you're Ok. And take care of yourself. Be safe – try to keep the risk as low as possible, that's all I'm asking. Ok, so, I guess…I'll talk to you. Bye."

A sharp beep announced the end of the message, a mechanical voice asking John if he wanted to repeat it or save it. John stared at the phone for a moment, fighting the urge to listen to his son's voice again, hear him one more time. Another quiet groan from the bed had him flinching again guiltily and he hit the delete button quickly, almost forcefully, waiting a moment to confirm that the message indeed had been erased.

Then he scrolled down the call log again, his thumb hovered momentarily over Sam's number, casting one last glance at his sleeping son before finally pressing the delete button, wiping out all traces that Sam had ever called at all.

Dean didn't need the distraction.

The doctor was right, he needed time to heal. In more ways than one.

He needed to worry about himself, didn't need to deal with the heartache.

Not right now.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I knew I was going to lose some readers as soon as the imminent-danger-part was over, maybe you still keep reading though, give this another chance. But I'm very grateful and glad that so many people still stayed with me on this._

_About the scene where Dean wakes up from the surgery...I tend to wrap some of my own experiences into my stories every once in a while, and while I've obviously never been the victim of a black dog's attack, I've been through surgery twice in my life already (fortunately not more often...) and I react pretty badly to the anesthesia wearing off...it's acutally the part I hate most about the whole hospital thing (and I hate it plenty...so maybe I tried to process that - write it out of my system a little..._

_Those of you knowing my other stories know that I'm a sucker for details - which are sometimes too rare on the show, due to understandable problems with restricted airing time and all that, but I can't get out of my skin, so I couldn't cut this chapter short. I did make some changes to the course of the story, which you of course wouldn't know, since you don't know the original disaster, but I hope you'll find the story consistent (if that's the right word for it), and then it will have been the right choice I made. So, no worries, Dean is going to get better, and they are going to get out of the hospital in the next chapter, get on the road again. But there's still some things I need to take care of before I can wrap it all up nicely (I hope)._

_So, those who are maybe a little dissapointed that I don't just end this story after Dean get's saved from the field, I'm sorry I couldn't meet your expectations. To everybody else still reading and especially those honoring me with their reviews time and time again - thank you so much for keeping up the faith in me. I'll do my best to justify it!_

_I hope I can get the next chapter done till next week - have to make some reconstructions, but I'll do my best to not keep you waiting too long, if you hopefully want to come back for the next chapter!_

_So, as always, your reviews keep me going - and thank you all so, so much for your precious time!_

_take care!_


	8. Chapter 8

_I raelly, really need to thank you all for your support...beacuse this is just so awesome. That's why I say it now, and again later, so you see how much I truly mean it ;-)_

_I hope you enjoy the next chapter:_

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 8**

"I think you missed a spot." John heard Dean say just as he walked back into his son's hospital room, steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a brown paper bag filled with a sandwich and some muffins in the other.

This kind of hospital food was bound to turn him fat in no time, if he had to keep this up much longer…

Dean lay facing the door, slightly propped up onto his good side so the nurse standing behind him had better access to the wound on his side and hip. His face looked strained, forehead drawn tight, lips a thin line against his teeth as he obviously fought hard to not make a sound as the nurse at his back kept doing whatever she was doing to him. Dean's eyes remained closed during the procedure so he hadn't realized John coming back from his little stint to the cafeteria.

They usually send him away when they changed Dean's bandages, cleaned him up a bit. While Dean always pretended to be alright and more than content when John left, he always looked an awful lot relieved when he came back again…

The nurse seemed to prod at a particular nasty bruise and John saw his son's face scrunch up even more, corners of his lips drawing up in a sickening smile as he laughed out the sound of pain that had threatened to betray his tough-guy-countenance in front of the undoubtedly pretty nurse.

"Jeez…yeah…that's the spot. Right there…"

It was weird, seeing Dean like this.

John had witnessed his son's behavior around women on more occasions than he could count.

Most times, it had made him smile and roll his eyes in mock exasperation. It hade been one of the few things he and Sam had agreed of, towards the end, had allowed them to team up a little, establish some rapport.

But now…this was different somehow.

John didn't quite know why, guessed it was because Dean's act was so damn close to perfect…but only just that. Close. Not perfect.

There were bead of sweat lining the curve of Dean's jaw, crowding on the rim of his lips and weighing down the tips of his lashes. His face still looked a mess, even after two weeks in the hospital. John winced along with his son as the nurse taped a fresh rectangle of gauze in place against his side, picking up a wet cloth from her tray and starting to wipe down Dean's back and…well…lower.

John decided to look away then, granting his son whatever tiny little shred of privacy he had still left. During the past weeks there certainly hadn't been a lot of consideration to keeping Dean's dignity intact. At the time, John couldn't have cared less, his only focus – their only focus on getting Dean better. Now, with his body slowly, painfully on the mend, John was once again reminded of how even his very open-minded and at times even blunt son did have issues when the decision of who he wanted to give a _glimpse at the merchandise_, as he liked to call it, was made for him instead of by him.

"You really know how to treat a guy…"

Dean sounded a little breathless, and John involuntarily had to crack a smile at the quip, even though he could clearly hear his son's pain lacing through the teasing words. John knew his son's voice, knew what to listen for. This voice was definitely Dean in pain and maybe even a little humiliated. Okay, so…maybe highly humiliated. The cracking jokes were the best confirmation for that – his son's best defense – his only defense if he didn't have a real weapon handy, that was.

"Hey dad…it's your turn already …?"

John blinked in surprise as Dean addressed him directly, unaware that Dean had seen him standing there in the doorway of the room. He watched Dean gingerly lying back down again, the nurse helping him do it as slowly as possible before drawing the sheets up to his chest once more. His face was pale and drawn, hands curled into fists on top of the sheets.

"Susie here works magic…gotta tell you… You won't feel the same again…after…"

Dean shifted his head against the pillow, lines around his right eye as deep as craters as he dramatically rolled his eyes up towards the petty blonde nurse standing next to him, busying herself with clearing away the torture instruments of her ministrations.

"You can be a little more…rough with him…though…he can take it. Think he even likes it…"

John couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that, and inexplicably felt himself blush as the nurse giggled and looked up, appraising him unabashedly. He cleared his throat, finally taking a step into the room and towards his son's bed.

"You harassing the poor woman again, Dean?" he turned towards the nurse, color of his face hopefully back under control again "If he's bothering you, you got my blessing to send nurse Paul in here to do the job next time."

That made her laugh, at the same time as it made Dean groan in mock exasperation.

"Great…teaming up against an injured man…way to go…"

The nurse packed up her things and with one last check of Dean's IV she gave him a gentle pat on the arm and left the room.

Maybe John only imagined it, but he could have sworn that her hips swayed a little more sultrily than when she'd come into the room about an hour ago.

He waited until he heard the soft squealing sound of her plastic shoes disappear down the hall before turning his attention back to his son.

Dean had settled back against the pillows as soon as she'd been out of sight, his eyes once again shut, lines of exhaustion standing out starkly against the pale of his skin. Now that the nurse was gone, he seemed to shrink in on himself, all tension suddenly gone from his posture, his expression. John bit his lip at the sight, pulling the chair he'd been sitting on for the past two weeks closer to the bed again, against Dean's good side, making it easier for his son to look at him, should he chose to open his eyes again. But he refrained from sitting down just yet, instead placing the coffee and his snack onto the nightstand, carefully leaning onto the mattress, waiting until Dean reacted to his father's closeness.

It took forever, but finally Dean cracked an eye open, settling his gaze onto his father's face from underneath lowered lashes.

Hiding his true exhaustion – or trying to. He wasn't doing such a bang up job, John had to say.

"You alright? Need anything?" John asked carefully, examining his son's face closely for any signs, be they as subtle as anything, that Dean was lying to him. Which, of course, he would be.

"No, I'm great. Awesome. Just…"

"Just what?" John asked, not even giving Dean the tiniest hint to get out of this and shutting down again.

God knew he'd done it plenty of times in the past days…

"Nothing…"

"Just what, Dean?" John pressed, eyes glinting fiercely now, no doubt, judging from the way Dean flinched a little at the look John shot him.

"Just…you mind helping me with the headrest…"

Dean started fumbling with the cable that connected to the remote enabling him to adjust the height of the headrest.

"She always puts it away when changing the bandages…and she never replaces it again afterwards…"

Dean's voice had lost all its previous cockiness, its forced teasing undercurrent. He just radiated _exhaustion_ and _defeat._ As if it was all too much for him.

John knew the feeling.

And he knew his son well enough to appreciate the fact that he didn't seem to work too hard at trying to hide it from his old man at the moment – which, in turn, served to worry John to no end. Dean never had given up on pretending he was fine, ever – not even in front of his family. It just proved how bad off he really still was, even after all this time at the hospital…

John rounded his son's bed, snatching the remote from the nightstand to Dean's left and laying it into his son's hand, letting him adjust the angle of the bed himself. He watched him carefully yet again, felt like he should know every single line and dimple and bruise and cut adorning Dean's features by now for he did nothing but stare at him, lately. Had stared at him day in day out, through nights, even, during the first week he'd spent in the hospital.

Once John had been sure Dean was not going to disappear on him all of a sudden, once he was sure Dean was going to be alright, more or less, he'd at least started to leave for the nights. And still he was stricken time and time again by those damn bruises, the lines of worry and pain seemingly tattooed into his son's features.

Dean had adjusted the bed so he was sitting pretty much upright, shifting a little until he was listing slightly to the right, taking some of the pressure off his injures side. John had seen the wounds there every day, knew that while they were healing, they were doing so painstakingly slow. They were still angry and red and terribly painful and would remain to be so for a while to come. But he understood Dean's need to finally sit up again, to not lie around helplessly on his back anymore like he'd had no other choice but do until only a few days ago.

When Dean had settled down again, face once again schooled as carefully as possible into a mask of relative calm, John crossed back to his son's right side, sitting down on the green plastic chair that had been his home for too many hours to count, lately. If he'd catch hemorrhoids sitting on this thing, he'd sue the hospital, for sure.

"So, what have you been up to today?" John finally asked as he took another sip of his coffee, seeing his son's almost longing look at the steaming hot beverage. But Dean surely didn't need something else to keep him up at night…

"Oh well, you know…same old, same old. Had me a wonderful exercise lesson with Doreen, the friendly torture-chamber wardress…who insisted on bending my shoulder at angles that sure as hell weren't natural…even if it hadn't been used as a goddamn chew-toy just a couple of weeks ago…"

John smirked in sympathy, taking another sip of coffee. He couldn't help but notice how Dean was still almost painfully out of breath, had to break his sentences into shorter paragraphs in order to take a breath every now and then. Damn broken ribs – damn broken body… damn black dog trying to rip his son into pieces.

John blinked himself back into focus as Dean's tired voice cut through his reverie again.

"And then, of course, there was the sponge bath…and massage from my own personal masseuse…"

"Lucky bastard." John offered around a small smile and Dean cracked an eye open to glare at him momentarily before letting his lids slide closed again.

"Yeah, lucky me. I would trade you…but…"

"I know, not letting your old man have a turn here…"

"Got that right."

They fell silent for a minute, and John thought that Dean had fallen asleep when his son dragged leaden lids open again, looking at him through veiled orbs of glassy green.

"They said I could get up tomorrow, start walking around with crutches, maybe. Said my shoulder should tolerate the crutches for a little while at least…"

Dean managed to look both excited and frightened at the prospect. Well, he hadn't as much as managed to move one single muscle by himself in weeks now…

"Good, that's good."

"Yeah, about time. Been lying around on my butt long enough…"

John frowned at that.

"Don't try and play tough guy with me, Dean." He snapped, immediately regretting his harsh tone as he saw Dean's eyes darken and pull away. He softened his tone, but leaning closer to drive his point home nonetheless.

"You've been…you don't get to rush this, Dean, you hear me? This is too serious to be taken lightly. The doctor says you take your time, then you take your time. You've taken one hell of a beating on this…"

"I know that…"

"I need you in top form, Dean, if we want to see this through – just the two of us. I can't afford to have you any less than 100 percent."

Dean once again flinched, chin dipping a little lower at his father's words.

But they weren't meant as an accusation, they weren't meant as a allegation. They were only meant as…an incentive. It used to be enough to get Dean going, to get him to slip back into his compliant mode.

And damn did that sound wrong even to John's own ears.

"I know that…" Dean repeated, all defiance gone from his voice.

He was pulling back again, John knew it – felt it. But he sure as hell didn't want it to happen.

"All I'm saying is…" he intervened, carefully weighing his next words, knowing that it was all in part due to the tension that was rippling the air between them for months now, that never really went away for good anymore that they were both unsure how to deal with each other anymore.

"All I'm saying is, you took one hell of a beating, Dean. And nobody, not me or anyone else is going to rush you on this, alright? You need to take it easy, make sure you heal up alright. Make the most of it while…"

John cut himself off, could have slapped himself for letting it come this far. Maybe, if he was real lucky, Dean hadn't heard.

"While I still can?" Dean finished the sentence for him.

Figured. Because Dean had ever missed one wrong word coming out of his father's mouth. Both his sons had always been awfully good at detecting John's every fault – it only used to be Sam's job to point every single one of those mistakes out to him, while Dean would silently look past them.

"Yeah, while you still can." John conceded with a sigh. Like it made any sense trying to keep Dean out of the loop here. Like Dean didn't know it just as well as John did.

They'd been here for only two weeks, which seemed like both an eternity and a mere second in time to John. Two weeks in which his son had managed to get better and still look like shit warmed over, still was so far from being alright and ready to leave…

But it was only a matter of time till their fake insurance would blow up in their faces, their credit card bouncing back on them – someone figuring out there really was no John and Dean Metcalf of Little Rock/Arkansas. They hadn't really been prepared for something as serious as this – something as long-term as this current stint in the hospital. It always was risky, no matter what, but this now was bending their limits impressively. The surgeries, the medications…it all cost money. Money they didn't have, apparently – not officially at least.

So far, nobody had said anything, but John pretty much counted the days till someone would step up to him and confront him about coming up with some cash to keep his son stationed here any longer.

They still had such a long time to go – Dean had such a long time to go. He needed more time…

"Our card bailing out on us?" Dean asked eyes heavy-lidded yet open, gaze intently focused on his father again.

This Dean knew how to deal with. John couldn't help but to be impressed by his son's ability to focus on the task at hand, no matter the circumstances.

"Not yet. We still have some time left – at least another couple of weeks, I guess. Till then I might be able to come up with something else, get my hands on new funds. You don't need to worry about it, alright?"

Dean nodded, but looked less than convinced. Might be that Dean had more experience with worrying about things that weren't really his business, maybe…

"I'll be alright till then…I'll be…"

He drifted off and John let him, didn't call him on it anymore. Dean needed to at least have the feeling he was in control, even if it was only through the pretense of being able to force his body to bend to his wishes, no matter how unrealistic they seemed to be.

They were silent again, Dean's eyes once again drifting closed. John knew it was to be blamed on the pain meds and abundance of other medications they kept pumping into his son, knew that this would be one of their biggest problems should they be forced to have to make a run for it anytime in the near future.

John had heard Dean's doctor talk about switching him to oral drugs within the next week – and he hoped that they would be able to hang around till then, let Dean get a hang on things before they had to disappear again. That and…Dean being able to walk would help tremendously. Which was very, very doubtful. No walking cast for at least another two weeks, probably more. John had done the math. He knew the chances of them still being anywhere near this town by then. But all in due time. Every day Dean could stay here, rest and heal, was a good day. Or at least better than the alternative.

And there still was the matter of his son barely sleeping through a whole night again lately without being waken by…dreams…as he liked to call it. But that was about all the information Dean was willing to give on the topic. It wasn't too hard a guess about the substance of Dean's nightmares, but so far Dean had been unwilling to share, had insisted that he didn't remember what the dreams were about.

John knew when his son was lying. And he knew when he was trying to hide things from himself.

So far they hadn't really talked about the hunt that had brought Dean here, had barely been over the mere facts of Dean hunting another dog, a mate of the one they'd killed together – the fact that it had all gone a little south hadn't really been discussed. As well as whatever ordeal Dean had gone through in the hours after, when he'd been lying in that field, hurt and alone, confused and hallucinating.

It shouldn't matter really. All that did matter was the fact that Dean was alive, the black dog dead.

And still John knew that Dean wouldn't leave it at that. He'd torture himself, willingly or not, punishing himself in his dreams now that he wasn't able to do it out in the open. He never made things easy on himself. And maybe John was, once again, the one to blame for that.

John became aware of the now empty cup of coffee still clutched in his hands, stood up to drop the paper cup into the trashcan in the far corner of the room.

When he returned to the bed he was surprised to find Dean watching him out of barely open lids, following his every movement across the room.

"You should rest, Dean." John said softly.

"Do nothing but rest…" Dean rasped out, but his drooping eyes betrayed him before the words had even left his mouth.

"You going to stay here for a while…right?" he asked suddenly, and John was stricken by the sudden _need_ he detected in his son's voice, surprised by how young he sounded.

Just like back in that field, all concussed and confused, thinking he was talking to his brother at first, then begging for his father to come and safe him.

John realized he was still standing, so he pulled the chair a little closer to the bed still, sitting back down.

"Till they kick me out." He said, with conviction.

Dean fought the pull of sleep with seemingly superhuman effort.

John knew that it scared Dean more than anything to be left alone in the hospital, drugged to the gills and defenseless, open to any attack. Dean had been raised to never leave his defenses open – both his sons had been raised like it. Dean had been the one to impersonate it to a point that had John both proud and scared at times.

"Good, alright. Maybe I'll just take a little nap, then…"

His eyes were already closed, and John allowed himself a small if painful smile, running a hand down his face, scratching at the raspy stubble growing there.

"Yeah, you do that." He said, but his answer was already lost on his son.

John waited a minute or two until he was absolutely sure that Dean was out for good before shifting the chair even closer, propping his elbow onto the bed next to his son and his feet onto the metal railing of the bed frame.

He'd like to see the person trying to get him out of this room until Dean woke up again.

He'd really like to see them try.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I know this chapter was a little shorter than usual, but this wrote itself, and it needed to be posted as it was- I hope you agree._

_I have to say, I'm very, very overwhelmed by the reactions to this story (I know I've said it before, but I still can't get over it...). I don't know who paid you guys to be so nice to me, but I really, really appreciate the effort ;-) I just can't shake the panic that, at one time, I'll do something stupid to blow it all to h... and dissapoint you guys. But, as always, I'll do my best._

_Also, I didn't mean to offend anyone with the way John dealt with Sam's call the last chapter. I just...as I wrote before...believe that John is wonderful, but he's not perfect. Which makes him all the more lovable to me, even though he does seem to make the wrong decisions every once in a while. I know a lot of people who think they have all the answers, and most of them don't get it right half the time, and still they are good and wonderful people who deserve a lot of love and respect... Just...don't be mad at me, or my John for that matter. I don't have kids myself, but I guess there is no parent out there gets it right all the time, even though he or she only wants the best..._

_Oh, and...today I saw a preview on german television...they'll finally air season 3 of SN here (about damn time)! big yay! even though...I doubt I can watch it, because it's jsut too damn strange to hear them with their german voices...(raises goosebumps on my arms, let me tell you!)_

_So, thank you all so, so much for your support and the wonderful reviews and PMs, and telling me about recommondations on other sites - I live for your reviews and I really hope I can persuade you to keep them coming._

_I owe you guys so much...you seriously rock!_

_thanks and take care!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Ok, just read, please, and don't worry...it will explain itself before the chapter is over - promise!_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 9**

oooOOOooo

Dean left the Impala idling on the side of the road, casting a nervous glance at his watch.

It was past 5.00 AM already, and he was long since overdue to at least report back to his father. Which was ridiculous, to say the least. He was a grown man, goddamnit, he didn't need to answer to anyone if he didn't want to.

Only, maybe he did.

Dean ran a weary hand over his eyes and down his face, feeling at the hint of a stubbly growth there. He kinda liked the manly look it gave him – not quite as shaggy and lumberjack-y as his dad, not as smooth and baby-skinned as his brother. The girls seemed to like it, too, so he might consider keeping the two day stubble for good, make this his own individual look. Only, this right now seemed to be more of a three day stubble already.

Dean let his hand drop back into his lap, checking his watch again.

Definitely _well_ past report-time.

Dad would be so pissed.

Thing was, he already was pissed the way it was, so there wasn't really much more that Dean could mess up.

God, _they_ were messed up.

Dean could be so fucking proud of himself. He'd vowed time and time again, to his mom - in his dreams – and to himself to keep their sorry little family together.

Bang up job he'd done so far.

Not enough that he'd let Sam out of his sight, had let him leave, on his own, away to college where Dean wasn't near, wasn't able to protect him. No, he'd also managed to somehow fuck up with dad, had managed to get into a fight with the only person he had left anymore.

He didn't even remember what the damn fight had been about, really, had only a vague memory of John saying something about Dean not reacting quickly enough to one of John's orders, moving too slow, moving not exactly the way his dad had wanted him to. It had been nothing, really, was senseless to talk about, because, honestly now, they'd accomplished the task they'd sat out to do, right? It really shouldn't matter that maybe, if at all, Dean had been an inch off his mark, a split second too early or too late to fire his gun. Besides, what made his dad's opinion the only right one, anyways? What if _Dean's_ mark had been the right one, _his_ timing the more exact one? What if Dean had been right about his course of action and dad had been wrong?

Dean wasn't exactly a novice in this line of work…

He hadn't really done it a lot of times in his life, even though he'd certainly gotten a little more loose-mouthed lately, maybe, but last night he'd finally talked back to his dad. Had told him where to stick it, had told him what he thought about the initial plan, what he'd done differently, better.

All good intentions and promises of playing the peace-keeper when it came to his dad thrown out the window for once. Just like Sam had told him to do ever since the kid had hit puberty.

Dean had answered Sam time and time again that rallying against dad wasn't a smart thing to do, wasn't _right_, by all means. Respect your elders and all that crap. Just look at where it had gotten Sam, in the end. And still Dean hadn't been able to keep himself in check last night, hadn't been able to follow through on his own advice.

Dad hadn't thrown him out, sure, but he'd sure as hell been pissed. And at the time it had seemed like the most sensible thing to do to just leave and let off steam.

They'd needed to do that a lot, lately.

Usually, it would lead to John storming out, slamming the door shut behind him to come back some hours later, shit-faced-drunk and ready to pass out the minute Dean had managed to drag his ass to the nearest bed or sofa. But lately, something had shifted between them. And maybe it hadn't been quite as subtle as Dean wanted to make himself believe.

Ever since Sam had left…they'd been tense - wired. The conversations had gotten thinner, the accusations thicker, even though they'd never been spoken out loud so far.

It was dad's fault that Sam had left.

And Dean hadn't been able to hold him back.

Dean took one last look at his watch, frowning as he realized that barely five minutes had passed since he'd last checked the time.

He ached to call Sam - talk to him. Just talk to him about everything and nothing, just to hear his little brother's voice, no doubt excited out of his mind by some class he was attending, some professor that was _just awesome_, some paper he'd turned in and some test he'd again gotten an A on. Talking to Sam always made Dean relax internally, made him smile, made him feel so much better the moment he heard his little brother's voice.

And it always left him feeling so much emptier as soon as line went silent again.

As if he was even lonelier with every time they hung up on each other…

It always hurt so much, even after all this time.

They, whoever _they_ were, said it would get easier with time, that it was in man's nature to forget. Dean just wasn't too sure if he really wanted to forget what he'd lost in the long run.

Dean realized that he had his phone still gripped tightly between his fingers, pad of his thumb brushing unconsciously against Sam's speed-dial. Sam would maybe even still be up, despite the early hour, either learning or maybe even partying. While Sam never had warmed up to the whole college-partying-thing, he had gotten fractionally easier with it. Dean knew. Not only because Sam had told him…but he'd seen it first hand, on one of his secret visit's to Stanford.

He hadn't spied on Sam, god no, had just made sure that everything was alright, no problems evolving that Dean needed to stop before they could pounce on his little brother. Sam had wanted to get away from the life of the Winchesters, so Dean would make sure that his little brother got the chance, 100%, no matter how Dean himself actually felt about it.

California never had been more supernaturally _clean_ than during those past endless 18+ months.

So, Sam might still be up, - or maybe up again already – he'd always been an early riser - but Dean still decided not to call. No need to alarm his little brother that there was trouble between Dean and John again. Sam always pounced on the opportunity to unleash a little anger and resentment on their dad.

He could call dad, of course – _should_ call dad, to be exact.

Dad needed to know, needed to at least know what Dean was up to.

But if he knew he'd demand that Dean come back and pick him up before he did anything, so they could check this out together.

Dad would not accept any excuses, wouldn't accept that Dean was very well capable of handling this by himself.

It was a little contradictory, really, considering that John left on solo hunts more often lately, leaving Dean to his own devices whenever he saw it fit, taking off in the middle of the night – or the day, once even in the middle of a shared meal. It would never be for more than a couple of days at the most, but the split ups became fractionally longer, lately, like back then, when Dean had still been a kid and still had to stay behind to take care of Sam.

Dean still remembered the first times they'd been left alone – first only a day, then two, then a week at a time. Once dad had been convinced that Dean could handle it, he'd become more liberal with leaving them…and Dean had become more and more _alright_ with it.

But now, Dean being grown up and more than capable dad still left him behind, and he never even called unless he had some research he wanted Dean to take care of, something he could help with from afar. He always dealt Dean the jobs he saw fit he should do. Saw fit he _could _do. But it never turned out to be an actual job, in the end, only some more research, some footwork that needed to be done, maybe something minor as a harmless salt and burn, at the most. Like Dean wasn't capable of handling a real job himself.

He was just so tired of being treated like a child, an apprentice, sitting and waiting for someone to need him only to leave him again sooner or later.

He couldn't do this much longer.

The way dad's impatience had been growing over the past days and weeks and months had been a sure enough sign that he had grown tired of their current arrangement as a team again, and Dean was sure that, if John had had his car up and running, he'd been long gone by now. He'd probably have left the minute the black dog they'd hunted last night was dead…flames barely died down and he'd been a cloud of dust on the horizon.

Gone to take care of business.

Business that he didn't need Dean for, apparently.

Figured.

More secrets.

First Sam, hiding those silly, cheery folders from all kinds of stupid, preppy colleges from both his brother and father, then John, leaving Dean with vague excuses that told him nothing at all, really, if he bothered to offer excuses at all. Dean hated being left in the dark. He hated being left behind.

So, he'd take care of this himself. Damn black dog had had a mate – who would have thought…

This would be _his_ project, then. Maybe he'd tell dad once it was over and taken care of.

Maybe not. He was entitled to have his own secrets, too…

But either way, he needed to get going. It was going to get light again soon, dawn already a faint idea on the horizon, and the black dog sure as anything would crawl back into its hiding place soon, if it hadn't done so already. It had taken Dean some time to figure out where the man had been attacked, then return to the motel to secretly steal away in the Impala.

And he'd driven extra careful, mindful of the two…maybe three shots of whiskey he'd had before he'd taken off. Not that a mere three shots would hinder him much, under normal circumstances, but it would be enough to make him somewhat more careful. He never went on a hunt in any way intoxicated. It was one of dad's – one of Dean's most important rules. And it was even more important than now, when hunting alone.

Finally Dean pulled the car onto the earthen shoulder next to the road, pulling her long, sleek body behind the rickety barn that loomed ominously in the shadows at the edge of the field. He killed the engine and turned around in the driver's seat to take stock of his weapons. Everything right where he needed it – everything in perfect condition. Dean always, _always_, no matter how tired or hurt or riled up he was, took care of his weapons before everything else. Hell, he'd tend to his guns before he'd tend to his own wounds, even.

His old man had definitely trained him even though he seemed to doubt it a little bit at times.

Dean eased himself out of the car, dragging the duffel over the bench seat until it cleared the car, swinging it over his shoulder once it came free of the door. He eased the door shut quietly, not wanting to alarm whatever might be lurking there in the dark.

He knew what was waiting for him out there.

He knew.

It made him extra careful.

The field was huge, wheat-stalks swaying lazily in the cool night air, heavy heads bowed as if in silent prayer. It looked so peaceful, as if nothing could disturb the quiet blanket of night.

And yet Dean knew that it was out there.

He'd been at the bar down the road from their motel - a shabby and dark place, nutshells on the floor, a few drunks occupying the wooden stools at the bar and around the couple of high tables that probably were supposed to imitate some kind of wild-west feeling or something. Dean hadn't gotten drunk – hadn't had the time to get drunk like he'd wanted to, unfortunately. Barely three shots into his well intended undertaking he'd gotten ripped out of his silent brooding by a local man running into the bar like the devil itself was on his tail, screaming bloody murder, spinning a wild tale about some huge monster charging out of the woods, going after his car to kill him.

At first, Dean had merely grinned at the man's tale that had everybody in the bar hanging from his lips within seconds. The man had told them about a huge, huge, _fucking_ _huge_ bear or wolf, eyes deep red, its flews dripping blood, the arm of a newborn baby still dangling from the corner of its mouth.

At that, Dean had actually laughed out loud.

Which had only spurred the man on even more, spinning his tale into even more fantastic spheres.

Dean had listened to the fantastic tale, knowing that the man wasn't lying, had only been overwhelmed by something he'd seen yet simply couldn't understand. Which made it sad and funny all at the same time. The man had to have seen the black dog that the Winchesters had killed a mere 3 hours before. There had been no way for the poor soul to know that, by the time he was relaying his tale, the beast had already been taken care of, killed and burned to a pile of glowing ash at the most. Case closed.

At least, though, it would get the man a couple of free drinks and some shocked admirers and a damn good story to tell to his friends and kids and grandkids for decades to come.

It was more than what the Winchester's usually got out of their all too true horror stories.

Dean had been about to order his fourth shot – plus his first beer, because he'd definitely planned on getting thoroughly wasted tonight – when suddenly he'd been stone-cold-sober again.

The man had been attacked not more than thirty minutes before he'd stormed into the bar.

He'd sworn up and down that he'd come straight here as soon as he'd escaped the enraged beast chasing after him. And since the man had almost pissed his pants as Dean suddenly had been right in his face, demanding more details, an exact place of attack, Dean was sure that he wasn't just making this up.

30 minutes, give or take, but definitely not more than an hour.

Which was flat out impossible.

They'd killed the damn dog well over three hours ago.

Quick and efficient, quiet and with fierce determination – Winchester style...

Had gone home - gotten into an argument - Dean had left.

A pretty tight schedule.

But the dog definitely had been deader than dead and an impressively unimpressive pile of ash a mere 30 minutes ago.

Which could only mean one thing – there was a second one out there.

Dean hadn't wasted another minute after he realized his – their – mistake, had left the bar and walked the two blocks back to their motel, gotten behind the Impala's wheel and taken off.

Sam had once told Dean that some black dogs hunted in teams, some in packs even, and Dean just hoped, _prayed_, that this wasn't a fucking pack but just a team, or a loving couple he was talking about here.

One more, he could take care of himself…but a whole pack…

Well, he'd see where this would lead him.

Dean took one last look at the car, making sure it couldn't be seen from the street running by the ramshackle wooden building, checking that the doors were locked, the trunk closed tightly.

Then he took off in a slow trot, cutting his way across a corner of the field until he reached the edge of the forest, running in the ditch that separated the trees from the field. It felt strange – uncomfortable, to be exposed like this – no backup. His back to the forest, facing the open field.

He'd gotten so used to having both his front and his back covered…and the last year – almost two had been strange enough, with one side suddenly exposed. But he'd worked around the feeling of unease, had come to terms with it – a little. But this now…it was something new altogether.

It certainly wasn't the best feeling he'd ever had, despite the inexplicable adrenaline-rush that accompanied the thought that finally, finally he was doing something under his own steam – under his own command. No one to judge him, to tell him what to do.

The night would show if that turned out to be a good thing or a bad thing…

Suddenly a sound at his back had Dean stop dead in his tracks.

A twig snapping – which could mean anything, really, from a squirrel to a badger to whatever else might be roaming these parts of the woods in these part of the States. But a part of Dean knew.

Knew in the split second before the attack that this was all wrong, that he shouldn't have taken this on by himself, that he shouldn't have allowed himself to get distracted by thoughts of his brother and father and by musings of self-pity.

And he _knew_ he was too slow the moment he spun around and was hit mid-movement by a brick wall slamming into him with a force that knocked the air out of his lungs. He heard something inside his chest crack, felt something give, tasted blood in his mouth and almost gagged on a wave of foul smelling air that washed over him like a fucking tsunami.

He wasn't aware of much, after, only the feel of his gun bucking in his grip, the beast howling and retreating for a second before charging again, flinging the gun out of his hands like it was nothing but a plastic toy.

Dean knew he had a second gun tucked safely away in the back of his jeans, knew that he had to reach it, had to use it, but the dog – even bigger and darker and _smellier_ than the first one didn't give him an opportunity to so much as blink before it was upon him again.

There was a white hot stab of heat, a moment of blinding agony as the dog's teeth came down upon Dean's shoulder, tearing effortlessly through his jacket and shirt and straight into his flesh, slicing clear through to the bone, jaws grinding, spit flying. Dean might have screamed. Maybe not. There was no telling what he'd done or said or felt, really, besides blind rage and the sheer need to kill, to survive.

He needed to survive.

If he died here, both his brother and his father would have won.

Sam had always told Dean that this life wasn't meant for him, wasn't meant for anybody, and Dean had denied it, had flat out refused to even consider it. Sam had said that Dean was going to die on the hunt one day, and that it would all be dad's fault. Dean hadn't believed him, despite the countless times that he'd come pretty damn close to fulfilling Sam's prediction.

And dad…dad had always kept Dean on the short leash, had treated him much like a dog, really, a dog much loved and cherished, sure, but a dog nonetheless, that was supposed obey unquestioningly, that worked for a treat and a pat on the head. Dad had never thought Dean capable of holding himself in a hunt. And didn't Dean just do everything to prove him right, now?

Dean swung his fists, didn't know who he really wanted to hit, just intend on hitting something, anything, so long as he made contact, caused pain. Maybe he swung a little at his dad – and Sam, too, but in the end all that mattered was the satisfying yelp his attack drew out of the damn dog as he hit it straight in that soft spot right underneath its ear, causing it to loosed its grip on Dean's shoulder.

Dean pulled himself free, this time definitely screaming as the huge teeth were wrenched free from his flesh not entirely of their own account.

He rolled away, right arm clumsily reaching behind himself, trying to get a hold of his spare gun, but his movements were sluggish, marred by pain and shock and the hit to the dog's head had been far from strong enough to knock the beat unconscious.

It was upon him again within a heartbeat, slamming him back against the ground, huge paws crushing into his abdomen like a sledgehammer, teeth going for Dean's chest this time. They slipped, distracted by Dean's fists again slamming down on its face, teeth scraping and cutting through fabric and skin and flesh, leaving hot trails of pain like molten lava as they dragged over Dean's chest, finally latching onto his side, locking down after two or three tries.

The pain was unimaginable.

Dean thought he heard the clicking sound of the beast's teeth meeting somewhere _inside_ his body, thought he was going to throw up from the thought alone, let alone the agony it enflamed all over and throughout him.

He delivered a couple more hits, but they were as ineffective as a kitten pawing at a Rottweiler's head, and Dean felt his strength waning fast. Still he kept it up – just for the sake of it.

The black dog picked him up, tried to carry him and Dean felt his back screaming as he dangled from the beast's huge jaws. He reached up, clawing for the dog's nose, its eyes, anything. Finally his fingers found something soft, dug in without thinking.

It howled the most unreal howl, jaws popping open, releasing its prey momentarily.

Dean didn't fall far, his weight still considerable even for the monstrous black dog to carry in its strong jaws, but still he hit the ground hard, immediately curling up on his side, unable to do much else but protect his injured body, fighting the pull of unconsciousness that had him firmly in its grip already.

He knew he should move, should get up, should either shoot the thing or make a run for it, however fruitless an attempt that would prove to be, but he couldn't as much a draw in a steady breath, let alone get the fuck _up_.

He couldn't.

When the dog advanced on him again Dean kicked it, hit its nose once or twice judging from the yelp he made out through the storm that raged inside his head, the pain that obliterated everything else. Then the teeth bore down on him again, ripping along his hip and down over his loins and thigh, leaving a fiery trail of agony in their wake. Finally, the found purchase on his left lower leg, daggers of fire stabbing into his shin and calf.

This time, the teeth definitely met somewhere in the middle, a sickening crack sounding loud and clear through the night, and this time Dean gagged on bile that shot up in his throat, filling his mouth, bursting out of him in a sickening heave.

And then, they were off.

For the longest time Dean didn't realize anything other than the pain coursing through his body, and the next thing he knew was being dragged through the field of wheat or corn or whatever the fuck else, dragging and bouncing along besides the black monster that still held a tight grip on his lower leg.

Why ever the beast took the trail _across_ the whole goddamn field instead of retreating into the patch of forest at its back Dean didn't know – didn't care to know. All he knew was that he had to stop it before it reached its destination and could start to chew on its newest chew-toy in earnest.

Dean was bouncing off the rough ground uncontrollably, his head hitting something hard and unyielding, rainbow hues of color exploding behind his eyes as a throbbing, sharp pain clawed though his scull, dark red obscuring his vision all of a sudden.

For a second he went lax, all muscle-movement halted by the thunderstorm raging through his head, but then his arms were moving again, following commands from his brain that Dean wasn't even aware it was sending their way.

Dean was hanging precariously in the beasts grasp, but the position, albeit hellishly painful at least left him with is arms free and flailing.

It could turn out to be the biggest mistake the creature had made all night. And it might be the only chance Dean would get.

He twisted himself around, painfully so, trying once, twice, countless times to bring his arm up towards the back of his jeans, hoping with all his might that his spare gun was still tucked in there, loaded with silver and ready to save his life.

When he finally did reach it, did find it, the relief tasted like cherry pie on his tongue.

He took a grip, pulling the gun free, releasing the safety with surprising swiftness, despite his trembling fingers, despite the dizziness that made him want to throw up, despite his less than favorable position. Despite all the odds being stacked clearly against him he managed to bring the gun up, managed to aim it at the dog's head – the side of it he had as clear a visual of as he was going to get, praying that he aimed right, that the beast wouldn't bounce him just in time of the shot and he'd shoot himself by accident, maybe chuck off his own leg while he was at it.

Even though – the leg felt like he really should consider cutting it off anyways.

But not right now.

The first shot had the dog howling and rearing its head up, dragging Dean up clumsily and painfully with the movement.

The second shot sent it stumbling, the third one finally made it relinquish its crushing hold on Dean's leg. Dean dropped to the ground, a blood-chilling cry booming through his head, but never making it past the privacy of his own mind, never breaking the eerie still of the night. He couldn't waste this one opportunity, had to stay focused, couldn't allow himself to black out just yet, didn't allow his aim to falter.

There'd be plenty of time for that later…

The creature stood there for a second, shaking its head in confusion, as if it had woken up from a bad dream, now trying to clear the cobwebs smothering its brain.

For a moment, Dean sympathized.

It wasn't the dog's fault that it was a monster, it hadn't chosen this life. It was an abomination, sure, but it hadn't chosen to be. It simply was what it was born to be.

Just a moment, as the creature turned towards Dean, its gaze zeroing in on its prey once again, mouth hanging slightly open as it panted heavily, tongue lolling, teeth glistening with blood and saliva, Dean felt sorry for the beast. It looked at Dean, looked him straight in the eyes and Dean gave himself one second, one tiny second to truly look at the creature he was about to kill.

_Know your enemy, know what you're about to kill._

Then he pulled the trigger again.

The bullet hit straight between the dog's eyes, burying itself into the sleek, black fur, hitting home.

Dead on.

Which was no small feat, considering that Dean actually saw not only one, but two or three black dogs dancing a wild jig before his bleary eyes.

The dog crumbled the way it had stood, going down onto its belly, front paws out in front of it, hind legs tucked underneath its belly. Its head came to rest on its front legs, teeth slightly bared, flews drawn back in an eternal growl.

One last breath, one last shudder, then it was still.

Dean barely gave himself time to revel in his success, barely time to congratulate himself.

He crab-crawled away, left leg dragging behind through the dirt, scuffling away until a heavy curtain of swaying wheat-stalks finally cut the dog's stinking carcass from view. He kept crawling, eyes still trained on the place in front of him where the animal would be, half expecting it burst through the thicket of stalks any time, pouncing on him, finally ripping him to shreds.

When he couldn't crawl anymore, his arms and leg too shaky to propel him backwards anymore he slumped down, gun arm still trained forward, other hand fumbling meekly through his pocket, searching for his phone.

He needed a minute, just another minute before darkness could claim him.

One minute to make a call.

He wanted to reach for his phone, wanted to dial the numbers so familiar to him, he could dial it by hard, no matter the condition he was in. As long as only one of his fingers was working…

But somehow his body didn't seem to be able to follow the commands his brain sent its way, his arms refusing to obey with frightening consistency. The phone was so close…so close. Just inside his jacket and yet it could have been miles away for all it mattered.

Dean felt himself slipping, falling, felt himself lose the fight as he simply followed the screaming plea of his broken body and let himself slip into unconsciousness. The last thing he heard was the strange sound of a crow cutting through the otherwise still of the night, accompanying him into the darkness.

OoOoOoO

"Dean..."

Dean groaned, sluggishly swatting his arm towards the annoying voice to his right, pitched low yet strangely insistent, bordering dangerously close on the verge of annoying.

"Leave 'm 'lone…" he mumbled, attempting to turn away from the nuisance.

His body didn't quite cooperate, seemingly pinned into place a strange heaviness wearing him down, muscles locked tight, unwilling to let go. And it was just as well. Dean had no intention, whatsoever, to move again anytime in the very near or far future.

But then, just as he was about to fall asleep again, dragged under by an impossibly heavy body and mind, the first distorted notes of a violin reached his ears, easily penetrating the heavy fog clogging his mind, immediately and almost painfully pulling him back into the gruesome reality he'd tried so hard to escape from.

At once he remembered where he was, what had brought him here – how gloriously he'd fucked this up – fucked himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut as the images invaded his brain, swamping his comfortable lethargy.

_Black dog…_

_Blood…_

_Pain…_

"'nuuh…"

"Dean…"

_The wailing voice of a woman…_

_Swaying stalks of golden wheat…_

_Glistening black feather…_

_The crow…_

"Dean, you need to wake up…"

Dad, it was dad. Had to be dad…sounded like him.

But dad was back at the motel, had no idea where his son was, no idea that Dean was dying… everything was so messed up, memories of Dean talking to John, of John actually finding him mingling with images of the attack, of being alone, always alone…

"Dean, wake up…"

Dean scrunched his already closed eyes shut even more tightly, once again attempting to roll away, to bring some sort of safety distance between him and whoever was so close to him. Just until he managed to open his eyes…just until he was able to see. The ground beneath him reached out for him, grabbed him, embraced him, a desperate lover determined to keep him glued to the spot.

But he had to…he had to…

"Dean…" closer now - louder, too. Desperate.

It sounded so much like dad…so much. And at the same time…not.

There was only one way to find out for sure.

His lids were as if glued shut, lashes sticking together with a vengeance, tangled up so fiercely, it actually hurt to pry them apart.

He made agonizingly slow process – but in the end, it worked.

For a second, everything around him remained blurry and out of focus, the world swaying and tilting dangerously.

And then, just as Dean thought he'd have to give up on his hard earned success and close his eyes again, maybe get sick while he was at it, his eyes focused so suddenly on the figure standing in front of him, the sight left him breathless for a second.

The crow was practically looming over him, head tilted, beak slightly open. Its claws were spread wide on the soft earth it was standing on, as if it was having trouble keeping its balance, wings slightly spread and hanging low, tips of its feathers brushing against the ground.

Dean gasped in a breath, dizzy with a sudden onslaught of unfounded fear, yet unable to draw his eyes away from the animal.

But somebody had to be here – _had_ to be here. He'd heard a voice talking to him just minutes ago…

The crow took a hobbling step closer, spreading its wings a little farther, its figure seemingly growing, expanding before his very eyes. But the thing that really got to Dean, the thing that really made him try and reel back, try and shuffle away from it was the bird's eyes.

The eyes were human.

The eyes most definitely were those of a human being.

Dean knew – because he recognized those eyes.

They were dad's.

"Dad…what…"

He managed to shuffle away a little, despite the blazing agony spreading though his body, but didn't get far as the crow opened its beak and started to speak – in a very human voice.

His father's voice.

"You need to wake up Dean…NOW."

OoOoOoO

Dean came to with a hoarse shout, body snapping up with sudden, uncontrollable burst of energy that had to come from a source deeply hidden somewhere inside his otherwise stricken body.

"No…what…what have you done to my dad…"

John was left help- and speechless for a second.

Dean basically threw himself backwards, a cut off groan escaping his mouth as he no doubt tore at his injuries in his wild dash for presumed safety. But John had himself under control fast. Dean was making too much noise…was bound to draw unwanted attention to them if he kept this up much longer. John was thankful that Dean wasn't hooked up to that heart machine and pulse-meter anymore, because that would have been sure to blare in alarm now at the latest.

He shot forward, wrapping a strong hand around his son's flailing arm, pinning his wrist down in an attempt to immobilize him without hurting him, bringing the other hand up to cup Dean's flushed face. Dean reeled back at the touch, head snapping back and away, but he was too slow, too sluggish in his movement and John caught him mid movement, preventing him from toppling backwards and off the bed in his haste to get away.

"Dean…for god's sake. Calm down. It's just me…just me. You got to snap out of it."

Dean was shaking, trembling, looking at him with eyes as wide as saucers, pupils blown impossibly yet apparently not being able to really see him.

"What happened to…what the hell did you do…?" he muttered, eyes drifting, then snapping back onto John's face again, widening to seemingly overwhelming proportions. He started to retreat once more, head pulling away from John's hand and he had to abandon his grip on Dean's wrist, reaching up to take a hold of Dean's neck, trying to avoid the still colorful bruises adorning the left side of his son's face.

"Dean, look at me…look at me. What did I do? What do you think I did? I'm right here, Dean, right here. It was just a dream…"

It took an impressive amount of strength to immobilize his still writhing son, feeling the taunt muscles rippling underneath warm and sweaty skin, said skin almost prickling against John's palms.

"I'm right here, Dean. You got that? I'm right here…"

John wasn't entirely sure what did it, in the end, what persuaded his son to believe him, what made him get a grip on reality again. After what felt like hours but probably wasn't much more than minutes, Dean blinked heavily, sluggishly, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously underneath the sweaty skin of his throat.

His right hand shot up, fingers grasping for his father's arm, digging in almost violently.

"Dad…" he rasped out, voice a sick memory of back then, in the field, scratchy and rough.

"Dad…" he repeated again, a little more steady this time.

Slowly, recognition crept back into his eyes, the feverish glint retreating a little, making place for still a little too yet familiar murky green.

"Yeah…it's me, Dean. What happened? You had a dream again?"

Dean looked at him, his throat working, jaw slowly grinding closed again.

"I was…I thought…"

He shut himself off, eyes flickering past John, roaming the room behind him.

"It's not…it wasn't real." He finally whispered, more to himself than anybody else, so John chose to stay quiet and not say anything to that.

He had no idea what exactly his son's nightmares were about.

He desperately wanted to know – sure – but now wasn't the time.

"You with me again, Dean? Are you alright?" John asked, quickly checking over Dean's body, looking for any signs that he'd hurt himself in the throes of his nightmare. Dean still looked shaken, as if he hadn't dug himself out completely, but after only a second of quiet contemplation he answered back to John.

"No…I mean, yeah. I'm alright. Fine."

His gaze momentarily flickered towards the nightstand, eyes squinting closed to read the numbers of the small digital clock John had put there to not leave his son in a complete time-void.

"What are you doing here? It's…it's in the middle of the night… Thought…they'd kicked you out when visiting hours were over…"

John couldn't help but flinch, biting his lips in preparation of what he was going to propose to his obviously still hurting son now.

He tightened his grip on Dean's neck, felt him lean back into his grip a little, relax into his father's support. At that moment, John hated himself for having to pull Dean back into the harsh reality of their life again.

But there was no use delaying the inevitable any further – it wouldn't make a lick of a difference in the long run, except for making this even harder on the both of them.

John cleared his throat and fixed his hopefully convincing and strong gaze onto his eldest eyes, somehow finding Dean's eyes alert and expectant, once again more or less successfully shielding whatever terrors had been reflecting in them just minutes before.

For the moment, John had Dean's trust – again or still, he wasn't able to tell. It at least made the next step marginally easier…or as easy as it was ever going to get.

"We've got a problem, son…"

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I'm so very honored and deeply moved by all the wonderful reviews and PMs i've received over the last chapter and the whole story in general, I don't really have much to say... This is overwhelming, and I won't tire of saying it, i really, really hope I can justify your support, really. I can't believe my luck to have found such wonderful people here..._

_I hope the dream/memory didn't confuse too much, but I wanted from the beginning to get the original hunt into the story, but for the sake of suspense and storyline I didn't want to put the scene in right at the beginning. So, I hope this works for you as well as it works for me. _

_On a by-note I need to tell you people from the US and Canada, that i finally managed to catch up with season 5 episodes (as far as available on the net). I was pretty sick for all of last week, and I spent most of my time after being reasonably fever-free to watch supernatural on my computer, suffering through the uncountable times that my wireless connection bailed out on me, or some videos ending surprisingly in the middle of an episode for reasons unknown to mankind. But i managed, and I was especially blown by My bloody Valentine...those last scenes...heart-wrenching. Guh..._

_But I also didn't get around watching S3/01 on german television, and as Leila1x1980 mentioned to me in her review...yeah, god. I do understand why the ratings in german speaking countries are not the best for this wonderful show. the voices are just...wrong...way too young to begin with and the translation is more than a little faulty. And the way Dean pronounces **Sammy**...gives me the shivers._

_Thank you all so, so much. I hope to hear from you and that you all come back for the next chapter._

_Bless you all!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 10**

OoOoOoO

"We've got a problem, son…" John said, voice low and a little rushed, and even though he kept his chin dipped low Dean had no problem detecting the darkness momentarily washing over his father's face.

It served to make Dean perk up immediately, had him up and, well, semi-alert as fast as anything ever could.

"What…what is it, dad?" Dean asked, voice pitched low only in parts due to the fact that he became suddenly aware of the need to keep this quiet, to not attract any unwanted attention. Truth was, the nightmare…dream…memory still stuck in his head, still very much present, despite the fact that Dean knew that the second part of it at least hadn't been real – had never happened like this.

"Our card bounce back on us?" he pressed on when John didn't answer his question immediately. Dean realized he was still held up by his father's arms mostly, but for the moment he didn't think he'd possess the strength to pull himself out of it, wasn't sure he even wanted to. He searched for his father's eyes, caught them and held onto them.

John swallowed, grinding his jaw-muscles slightly before letting them relax again.

"Yeah, they told me yesterday morning. I managed to get them some cash and a check to cover us for a little while, but the check is going to blow, so after that… We better get going before that happens."

John sighed, finally looking away from Dean, biting his lower lip.

"All the other cards are under different names – I can't use them here, Dean."

Damn.

Dean wanted to kick himself, hard, in every available part of his fucked up body for getting them into this mess. He should be better by now, should be up and about, walking on is own two legs, goddamnit. If he'd just watched out for himself…

"I'm sorry son, but we need to get you out of here. There's no other way… I overhead one of the nurses checking back with social security – it'll only be a matter of time till they find out we're not who we pretend to be."

Dean nodded numbly, still not quite ready to grasp the whole situation in its entirety. He was still half asleep, really, needed a couple of minutes to wake up on the best of days.

But they needed to get out of here, sure…that much Dean understood.

He just wasn't really sure how he was going to do it right this moment.

He'd barely been out of this damn bed one or two times since they finally allowed him to start walking around with assistance – and two crutches, and even then it hadn't ever been more than five minutes, tops, before they'd made him lie down again. And that had been only yesterday and the whole experience had left him more exhausted and in pain than he cared to admit. Sure, he wanted out, had even told his dad so once or twice, but now that he got his wish…things did look slightly different, all of a sudden.

"Yeah…sure. Alright. We'll get out of here." He offered, his brain feeling strangely fogged up still.

Maybe it was the dream still lingering there, maybe it was the medication coursing through his system…but the goal was clear – the path…not so much, maybe. But dad had a plan, and Dean was good at following orders. And he trusted his father.

They had to get out of here. So they would get out of here. Dean didn't doubt that his dad had thought this through, had taken care of every eventuality. If he said they needed to make a run for it, they had to.

John was still holding on to him as if he wasn't able to hold himself upright, goddamn it, and Dean shrugged himself out of John's hold, almost tumbling back down onto the bed as he did so but catching himself at the last instance. Great way to prove he was able to run…

"OK, you going to have to trust me on this, alright, Dean? I know you're still hurt, and I know you should be anywhere but out of bed at this point, but we can do this, alright? The night-nurse came by about 20 minutes ago. That gives us another hour at least to get you reasonably dressed and into the wheelchair, wheel you down to the parking deck. I've got the Impala parked right by the door, so we won't have to go too far."

Dean nodded as if on autopilot, taking it all in. Sounded reasonable enough.

Excluding the part where he had to get out of bed and dressed and out into the parking lot without someone seeing them, that was. Without being able to walk as much as one single step himself. Without those annoying yet undoubtedly awesome drugs they kept pumping into him to help him deal with the still considerable amount of pain he was in…

As if he'd read his mind, John pushed himself away from the bed and walked over to the small locker that held all of Dean's meager earthly belongings. While he started to clear it out, pulling the pile of fresh clothes he'd brought in just a couple of days ago and depositing it onto the bed, he kept explaining in a low, hushed voice.

"I got your meds in the car already – had the nurse give me a list of the things you needed, then faked a prescription and got it filled this afternoon. They still have you on some stuff through the IV, but with this we'll be able to make up for that."

Again, Dean only nodded.

Fact was, the change in schedules would be a bitch to deal with. Dean knew it. Had been there before, once or twice. It never was a pleasant experience – not even when he was officially declared ready…

"Found some crutches, too – they're waiting in the Impala. And I borrowed your file from the doctor's office, so we can check you into another clinic someplace else if push comes to shove…"

Right, like that was ever going to happen.

John crossed over to the closed door of the room, opening it a gap and peeking out, checking the perimeter.

"Alright, so…we better hurry up. We don't have much time left…"

Dean still stared a little dumbly at his father, and John quickly stepped closer to him again, moving right up to the bed, close enough that Dean could smell the adrenaline bleeding out of his father's skin.

"You with me on this, Dean? I'll do most of the work, but I'll still need your help on this, alright?"

"Yeah, sure…sure. I'm good."

Maybe John looked a little doubtful, but since they didn't really have a lot of options in the matter, he finally seemed to be able to push his worries to the back of his mind. John always had been good at pretending that problems didn't really exist. It was a trade that Dean had tried to copy his whole life. Time had to prove if he was quite as good at it as his old man, though.

"Alright, so…you try to take it easy, let me do most of the work, safe your strength."

Dean got a little woozy when John let go of him, bracing himself against the mattress and closing his eyes momentarily against the dizziness as he pushed himself upright. His side and hip gave a dull throb, still subdued by the meds yet undeniably protesting the movement, the strain on the still and unfortunately very slowly healing injuries.

"Dean…hey…"

Dean forced his head to stop spinning, his eyes to focus and looked up at his dad with the most determined look he could muster under the circumstances.

"You _sure_ you're up for this?" John asked at the same time that he started pulling the IV from Dean's hand, pressing his thump down onto the tiny hole in the skin till it stopped bleeding then quickly wrapping a small roll of gauze around the limb.

Yeah, he was ready for this. He _was_ ready for this – wanted to get out of here. 'Course he wanted out.

He'd wanted out most of his life…

He was ready for this…redyreadyreadyready…

And still Dean spoke the words maybe a little against his better knowledge.

"Been born ready…"

The next minutes all pretty much blended into a haze of pain and grunts and humiliating touches, John having to do most of the work of getting Dean out of his hospital gown and into his t-shirt and over shirt since Dean didn't manage to lift his damn left arm over his head to do it himself. He was once again stopped short in his attempt to end the humiliation of getting dressed like a baby and do it himself when he almost toppled off the bed as he leaned forward, trying to pull up his pair of jeans, vertigo hitting hard and fast and most definitely unforgiving.

"Come on, let me help…"

John pushed a gentle hand against Dean's chest, leaning him backwards against the raised head of the mattress and Dean sighed as the pressure in his abdomen subsided with the motion, his head immediately clearing a little as soon as he wasn't bending down anymore. He tried not to think about what was happening, reminding himself that, with everything he'd gone through over the past weeks in the hospital, getting dressed by his dad surely was the least of his worries.

John helped him push his right foot into the leg of his jeans, clumsily trying to fit the fabric over the thick cast of Dean's left lower leg. It was to no avail, though, and both men soon realized that it wasn't going to work. The jeans simply were too tight, and already Dean was sweating with exertion, his teeth clamped tightly against the very overpowering urge to scream at his father to stop bending his leg that way, that even though the lower limb was encased and immobilized, the rest of the limb, hell, his whole body wasn't granted such convenience. Each jostling move of even the smallest muscle in his little toe, it seemed, served to send shockwaves of agony all the way through to his fucking eye-lashes, even.

Dean watched his father as John stopped in his attempts to get him decently dressed, watched him scrunch his brow and suck in his bottom lip in an attempt to figure out what to do. Looking so much like Sam…did the two of them even realize they were so goddamn alike?

Dean doubted it. They wouldn't have tried to bash each other's heads in the way they had, if they'd been seeing even a little bit of themselves in the other, would they?

"Whatever you're thinking…" Dean started, coughing against the roughness of his own voice "But I'm not going to…make a grand escape…butt naked here…"

His attempt at humor didn't seem to reach his dad, and Dean was a little disappointed with himself, so used to being able to lighten even the darkest mood with his admittedly sometimes ill-placed jokes, when John suddenly turned around, digging something out of his duffel.

When he turned back towards the bed again, Dean saw the shining blade of his favorite bowie reflect the sickeningly reddish light from the tiny clock on the nightstand, giving the impression that the blade was covered in blood.

Dean winced, snapping his head back in an automatic reaction before he could stop himself.

"You're not…going to cut the leg off…are you? After all the effort…it took to keep it attached…to the awesome rest of this body…"

This time, John's lips ticked up into the ghost of a smile.

"Gonna cut the leg open." He started, then correcting himself quickly when Dean visibly flinched. "The leg of the pants. Gonna cut the fabric open so the cast fits through."

"Well, that's kind of a relief…"

John made quick work of slicing the pant-leg open to about mid-thigh, once again trying and this time succeeding in pulling the fabric over Dean's leg.

"Probably a bad time to mention this…" Dean huffed as John reached behind his back, helping him sit up so he could put his good leg on the ground, standing up and letting his dad pull the pants up and over his hips for him. It took super-human effort to not snap at his father, to not go crimson red and demand that he do this alone, that he was fucking capable of pulling his own pants up himself. The death grip he had on the edge of the mattress probably was as good an indication as any that it wasn't quite true.

"Bad time to mention what?" John prompted as he buttoned Dean's fly with quick and efficient movements, then slipping his shoulder underneath Dean's armpit, letting him lean against him as he turned them both around before lowering Dean into the wheelchair standing against the wall.

"Bad time to mention…that this was my last…pair of jeans. You sure you're up to…riding in the car…with a guy only dressed…in his boxers…?"

This time the smile gracing John's features was unmistakable, which served to take all the gruffness of his comeback to Dean's pun out of his words without any problem.

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean's leg felt impossibly heavy, worn down by the cast even as John placed it onto the metal frame that stuck out of the front of the wheelchair, keeping it elevated.

He was still trying to get more or less comfortable, trying in vain to find a position he would be able to tolerate when John already slung the duffel with Dean's belongings over his own shoulders, taking hold of the wheelchairs handle-bars and pushing them towards the door.

Dean could clearly hear the sound of his own heartbeat reverberating loudly through his head, his whole body, like feeling the vibrations of a bass when standing too close to a speaker at a Metallica concert. Next thing he knew, he was being wheeled down the dimly lit hallway, his dad walking hunched over him a little as if to bodily shield Dean from anybody daring to step in their way.

Luckily enough, nobody crossed their way.

They reached the emergency stairway at the end of the hallway, and with no look back pushed the door open, carefully easing it shut behind them.

This time Dean positively thought his heart would jump out his throat as he saw the horribly imposing flight of stairs that led down towards the parking lot.

He tried not to let it show, swallowed down the urge to just ask his dad to give the chair a push and let him tumble down because there was no way he was going to walk down that whole story…

John stopped the chair, came to stand next to him, duffel with Dean's stuff slung over his shoulder, taking a precious minute to crouch down next to Dean.

"Alright…can't use the elevator, so we gotta make it down here. It's not far, though. I'll carry you…"

"No way you're not." Dean shot back immediately, regretting the sharp words the instant they left his mouth.

He took a steadying breath, addressing his father with as much conviction he managed to put into his eyes and words.

"I can walk." He declared, much more calmly.

John nodded.

"Alright. No putting any weight on that leg though, alright? You hold on to the railing and I get your other side. You lean onto me."

They'd made it down exactly four stairs till Dean seriously, seriously regretted his own stubbornness. He was panting, each step pure agony, as even when he put his good leg down, a sharp pain inched its way through his body and straight into his left leg and thigh and side and chest and shoulder. And head. Dean swore he could feel his ribs shift and move inside his chest, swore could feel the bones inside his leg grinding, moaning to stay in their designated position when the cast covered limb was being pulled relentlessly downward by gravity.

At the moment, the worst of the pain was still blanketed by the painkillers they'd been feeding him with last night, but already the blanket was wearing dangerously thin.

"Almost there…we're almost there. You just gotta breathe through it." John mumbled quietly, reassuringly, and Dean knew it was unreasonable, but he felt somehow comforted by his father's quiet reassurances.

He bit his lips and shut himself off, half hobbling, half sliding down each and every single step till they finally reached the parking deck at the bottom of the stairs. John did end up practically carrying him after all once they were through the door, slogging him the few feet to the dark body of the Impala, waiting there in the shadows like the welcoming arms of a lover after being separated for months.

Dean sighed at the sight of her, radiating warm and safe and _home_.

He felt a little steadier, leaning his weight forward and towards her passenger seat, already imagining, _feeling_ her soft leather underneath his body, against his back…

"Backseat." John's voice ripped him out of his longing thoughts with gruff gentleness, a flick of the head indicating the suggested direction, as if Dean wasn't only hurt physically but a little slow on the mental side as well.

"What?" Ok, so maybe he _was_ a little slow. Had to be the concussion still, even though that was more than a little unlikely – more than two weeks after the injury. So, had to be all those pills they were forcing down his throat, plus the fact that he hadn't really had the chance to do much besides lying on his back, staring at the ceiling all day. He missed the exercise, both physical as well as mentally, Dean had to admit, even though he'd never tell his dad that little fact. But truth was, a little research every now and then, albeit mind numbing and boring, at least had him up and alert, his brain occupied.

"I said backseat. No way are you going to sit up front for the duration of the ride, son."

"I'm not gonna sit in the backseat like a little kid…" Dean protested, but cut himself off as he saw his dad's eyebrow rising about an inch on his forehead, eyes glinting dangerously dark.

Just like Sam's when he got pissed. And again it struck Dean how much alike those two were sometimes – it hurt to look at either one of them without seeing the other…

"You seriously want to discuss this with me, Dean? Don't make me regret springing you from this joint…"

"Like we had a choice in the matter." Dean shot back, but conceded quickly that, well, his dad might have a point there. More than one, maybe. A whole shitload of them, to be honest.

Dean pouted his lips indignantly, thinking furiously of something to say…anything that wouldn't make him sound like just the kid he so stubbornly had denied to be, wouldn't end up in dad bodily dragging him back into the hospital, insurance issues be damned.

Besides, Dean needed to be on the move again, needed to get better as soon as possible as to not be left behind on his dad's newest project.

Dean knew that John was up to something, was already lining up another hunt. Sometime during Dean's involuntary stay at the hospital John had gotten antsy, had spent more and more time on the phone, whispering to people when he'd thought Dean was asleep, scribbling pages after pages into his journal, which he carefully kept out of his son's reach whenever Dean was awake and aware.

Dean knew John was up to something. Had been so for a couple of months already.

And he wanted to be in on whatever this _something_ was.

He didn't want to be left behind again.

"Fine, fine. Whatever, man." He finally conceded, trying to appear unfazed by the thought that, the last time he'd been condemned to the backseat had been when Sam had still been with them and Dean had lost some stupid bet to his little brother which forced him to relinquish his big-brother-front-seat-rights to his little brother for a whole goddamn week.

He made it to the backseat with a minimum of grunting and cursing, Dean hobbling on one leg, letting his dad maneuver him into the car, letting him prop his cast-encased leg up on a bunched up duffel and some sweaters John had found in the trunk.

"You good like this?" John asked, all gentle voice and rough edges again as he leaned over Dean's outstretched legs, patting his left knee absentmindedly.

Dean bit back on the sigh of pain at his dad's inconsiderate motion.

"I'm always good…"

John nodded tiredly, obviously not convinced at all, so Dean flashed a smile that felt a little strained in his still slightly bruised face, too tight skin and thick eyelid pushing the little ways that he managed to open both his tired eyes closed again without much effort.

"Hey dad.."

"Yeah?" John leaned back into the car.

"I know you're disappointed in me." He started, cut himself off when he realized that he didn't really know what he wanted to say, hadn't thought it through before speaking his mind.

"Dean..."

_Jeez, what had he been thinking…__?_

"Nothing, nothing. Just…forget I said anything. I'm still half asleep…"

John bit his lips, looked most definitely doubtful. But this certainly was neither the time nor the place.

"Listen, we'll discuss this once we're somewhere safe, alright? Somewhere else but this car…"

Maybe it was just an imagination, but Dean thought, hoped, prayed he'd detected honesty in his father's words. He needed his dad to keep relying on him, to trust him. Someone had to.

"But the Impala…is as safe as it'll get for us, right?" Dean offered around a crooked smile, giving his dad the way out of this situation that was definitely awkward for both of them.

John looked at him intently for another couple of seconds, no doubt contemplating if he would let Dean off the hook quite as easily. But in the end, and Dean had never really doubted it, John let Dean's comment slip, taking the easier way out. It _was_ the Winchester way after all.

"Yeah, you're probably right… But still, a car is no place for you to heal, Dean. Not after what you've been through."

John was still all rough edges, but gentle concern deepened his already dark eyes to an even darker shade of brown as they swept over Dean's face in careful contemplation.

"You let her hear that, and she'll probably overheat her radiator on you the next chance she'll get..." Dean prompted teasingly.

John smiled.

And that was that.

"Alright then, let's get this show on the road." He said.

Dean only nodded in agreement, his strength positively spent now – barely minutes out of the hospital, only at the beginning of their journey. This was going to be so much fun…

And once he felt like total shit anymore, he'd get on it. If he made it through this journey, that was. Which seemed kind of doubtful from where he was standing – sitting – slumped like a ragdoll right now.

John nodded, sighed again, then straightened and closed the back door carefully before rounding the car to take his seat behind the wheel.

Dean felt a pang of jealousy course through him as his car – _his car_ – roared to life, John cranking it into drive and pulling it out onto the road.

Dean's car – but he wasn't the one driving it.

It really wasn't fair.

But it kinda was his own damn fault anyways.

Dean settled back against the Impala's back door, head against the cool glass, breathing through the first painful minutes on the road as the he got accustomed to the jolts and jiggles of the car, the once so familiar yet suddenly painful motion of his life. His body was reluctant to ease up after weeks of lying pretty much motionless in the one of the softest beds known to men, reluctant to settle into the familiar routine.

He had no idea where they were going, no idea how long it would take them to get there.

But it didn't really matter.

As long as he was on the road he was home.

There had been days when it had been different, but these days, it was all that mattered.

OoOoOoO

Tbc

_AN:_

_Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews – and sorry I didn't get to answer back to any of them yet…I'll be getting right at it. _

_I really was convinced by the last chapter,__ it was part of the story that needed to be told, I think, but I had the feeling that, despite the reviews that I did get were very positive, some others seemed to have been a little disappointed by it. Maybe the dream kinda cut the flow of the story?? Well, I hope it was just my overactive imagination and it wasn't too bad and I can convince you to not lose faith in me and this little tale though and have you coming back for the rest of the story. There is still some serious TLC to come, and maybe some…well, no, not going to give anything away, you'll have to read to find out what's still in store for Dean and John ;-)_

_So, I'm off to work on the next chapter, and hope you enjoy this one till then. _

_If you want to drop me a review – please don't hesitate. I know I'm terrible for asking, but I need the reassurance…:-)_

_So, keep on rocking and take care!_


	11. Chapter 11

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 11**

OoOoOoO

A safe-house.

_Their _safe house.

Well, not literally _theirs_, not by deed of ownership at least…

John didn't really know who it actually belonged to, thought it might actually be Bobby's, or some other hunter's, but by default it had become theirs, at least in his own eyes. It was a house owned by a hunter, made available to other hunters that needed a place to stay, to rest, to heal…to let their guard down a little.

There weren't many people passing through here, usually, just enough to keep the place livable, to keep it up and running, the woodwork from tumbling in on itself, the TV and fridge to keep working. Whoever stayed here did so for free, was free to use whatever was in the house, was committed by conscience to keep the place up and running, to repair whatever repairs needed to be made, and leave some clean sheets on the beds and a couple of cans of something eatable in the cupboards.

It was a simple scheme, and it worked surprisingly well, John thought, if one considered that most hunters were loners, outcasts even, that usually couldn't be made to care much about others except for the rare occasion here and there that they needed help with a hunt, some information to be given, a backup for a job that was too big for one man to take on alone.

Sometimes John even remembered notes left behind, in a secret drawer that one of his boys once found, some kind of spell or ward, left there to be of help to whoever would pass through here next. John had copied the note, then left the original there along with a little something out of his own journal. But that had been a long time ago, and in the past couple of years information hadn't been spread quite as willingly anymore. Everybody had his or her sources, their own secrets and free sharing wasn't really done out of one's own circle of people to trust. It had proven to be too dangerous, John knew that better than he would like.

The house still looked the same, John thought, maybe a little worse for wear nowadays, would need a paint-job and the patch of grey-brown grass that used to be the front lawn was definitely well past saving, but it still looked just as he remembered it.

John didn't exactly recall the exact last time they'd stayed here, was pretty sure that his boys wouldn't remember, it had been that long ago. He had come here by himself on a couple of occasions over the years, but had never stayed long enough to really reestablish any sort of attachment to the old building anymore.

But it had been home, once, a long time ago – if only for a couple of days or weeks at a time. As close to a home as it had gotten for them, ever since Lawrence…

What John did remember was, that in addition to the living room/kitchen/dining room downstairs there was a bathroom and a den, where John used to sleep when they'd stayed here in the early days. There was an upper story as well, with just one room that used to be the boys' during their very first visits, but sometime later John remembered all of them staying in the room downstairs due to some sort of incident with the stairs...something about Sammy falling down when he'd started walking around but hadn't been real steady on his feet yet. Dean had flat out refused to camp up there after, even though Sam had gotten his limbs under decent enough control at some point growing up.

So, yeah, the house was old and rickety and definitely had seen much, much better days, but the boys had been happy here, John remembered that, having an actual home, if only for some weeks at a time. And Dean had made it livable, had put up some old pictures he'd found in some dumpster once, had even managed to lay down a tablecloth on the wooden table in the dining area, had scored a handful of almost matching china _somewhere_.

Back then John hadn't cared to find out, but knowing Dean the kid had probably sweet-talked it off some old lady he'd helped carry her groceries or something. Even though the house was pretty secluded and a good distance from any other habitation, his eldest had always managed to find neighbors to talk to, find the odd little jobs around the neighborhood that scored him the odd dollar here and there.

Dean had managed to make this house a _home_ of some sorts, for Sammy, mostly, but also for John. Whenever he'd come home from a hunt, back to this place, he remembered the odd feeling of _returning_ – to something other than solely his boys.

And maybe, just maybe, the stupid tablecloth and the cutlery adorned with weird, tacky roses painted on them in too bright colors had been a tiny part of it.

Back then, John had found it all for nothing, a useless gesture. It had taken him years to appreciate the effort for what it had been.

The house lay before him now, bathed in the last rays of the day's fading light, the woods around it casting it into eerie shadows. It was a perfect hide-away. Far enough away from everything to not make anybody suspicious as to two little boys staying there by themselves, about strangers coming and going, carrying weapons around and building flame-throwers in the backyard, but close enough to not make life too hard. One could still walk to the next house easily enough, even walk to the small town center in less than an hour.

It had taken them almost all day to drive here from where they had fled the hospital in the early morning hours, just a few necessary pit-stops along the way.

Dean was finally sleeping.

At least John hoped that it was only sleep, that he hadn't simply succumbed to unconsciousness because his body couldn't handle the strain anymore…

Even though he had spent the entire drive in some sort of doze, a state between wakefulness and unconsciousness, he hadn't really slept deeply, had tossed and turned, even groaned at times. He hadn't talked, but John had heard the quiet sounds, sometimes developing into a low hum and had known that Dean was trying to space himself out, to escape the pain that had to be raking through his body. He didn't deserve to suffer like this, John knew that, and still it had been the only way to protect his son.

He simply had to be exhausted.

Hell, he radiated exhaustion and misery from every available pore of his body. John sympathized, but it couldn't have been helped. They'd needed to make a run for it, and they'd needed to put a little distance between themselves and the hospital, had needed to reach the next PO box John knew held 2 new credit cards they so desperately needed.

He was going to pick them up eventually, but for the time being they needed to get settled into their accommodation and get some rest. Good, honest rest. Dean needed his meds to make up for the drugs they'd been pumping into him at the hospital, had to get used to the new schedule.

And John had to do some research, talk to a couple of sources, get his hands on a few books he'd been meaning to read. Only his goddamn pride had prevented him from simply driving to South Dakota weeks ago already, asking Bobby to have a look at said books. John knew Bobby had them in his more than extensive library somewhere. He also knew that Bobby would give John hell the moment he put one foot anywhere near his property - not to talk about into his house – and while they'd probably find some way to deal with their problems, in the end, it still wasn't very high on John's to do list.

Especially not with Dean in tow, who looked like shit warmed over. Bobby would _definitely_ not react very well to that, wouldn't let that slide at all… He'd made it very clear that last time the Winchesters had stayed at the salvage yard that he didn't quite agree with the way John handled his little family.

John sighed, ran a weary hand over his face.

It had been a long drive and he was bone-tired.

This took a lot more out of him than he'd thought.

Hunting – just the two of them - was an even greater demand than he remembered it being when it had just been him alone, back all those years ago.

Back when his boys had still been too little to help him on the job, he'd managed to do all this by himself, and he couldn't remember being fazed by it even half as badly as nowadays. Maybe it was age creeping up on him – or maybe it was just habit. Maybe he'd just gotten so used to having his boys around… While it had been somewhat stressful to hunt with them in terms of feeling responsible, of constantly worrying for their safety at first, he'd come to rely on them in ways he'd never thought possible. He'd come to trust them, to _need_ them.

With Sam gone now…it left a hole in his defense, and while Dean was more than capable of filling it in terms of skill and dedication, it still left both of them spinning out of control at times, the effort it took to step in and compensate for Sam's lost resources. Suddenly there were things to think about, things to do that John had never thought about doing before. And he saw Dean struggle with it as well, saw him trying day in day out to fill in the space his brother had left unoccupied, trying his hardest not to leave any extra work to John. But while he was doing his best to unburden John, he was at the same time defying his actions by letting John _feel_ Sam's absence with every look, every word he directed at his father.

John knew that, as hard as it was on himself to have lost his youngest, it had to be ten times harder on Dean. It really was time that he showed his son that he did appreciate Dean for what he was trying to do in order to keep them both capable of going on.

Yeah, easier said than done.

With one last look at his sleeping son through the rear-view mirror John got out of the Impala, easing the door shut behind him yet leaving the engine idling. The moment he'd turn it off Dean would be awake, most likely, so John was going to give his son the couple more minutes of rest before he had to get up anyways.

He jogged towards the house's front door, wrenching at one of the wooden floorboards next to the entrance, fishing out the set of keys he knew to be hidden there.

After unlocking the door he made his way into the house, methodically checking every single room, every single window as well as the back door. He made sure all the wards and protective symbols were still up and in place, weren't worn out from time and elements, destroyed by teenagers or looters lurking in the seemingly abandoned building. He turned on the electricity, checked the water pump and made a cursory sweep of the small root cellar that held a couple of shelves filled with the odd little can of soup and some sodas. Seemed like the last hunter hadn't taken the responsibility of restocking the supplies too seriously.

But it would get them through a day or two, and John would have plenty of time to go grocery shopping once he'd settled them into the house and had made sure that Dean hadn't taken too much harm from their little trip.

Only when he was that satisfied everything was in order, that they would be safe here, John returned to the car.

This time John shut off the motor, got first their gear and duffels out of the trunk to drop them in the bedroom which lay right off the main living/dining room of the small house.

John deposited Dean's duffel next to the one bed in the room, checking to see if the sheets and blankets were indeed clean, that there were no unwelcome visitors hiding underneath the warm and reasonably soft linens. When he turned to go back outside John didn't spare another glance at the army-style bunk bed that stood against the far wall of the room – the boys' beds, once upon a time, tried not to think about the fact that he would have to sleep there this time around. Maybe, once Dean was better, John could retire on the sofa in the living room again, but at first the narrow cots had to be enough.

Without a look back he left the door open to go get his son.

He tapped the glass of the Impala's back window lightly, not wanting to startle Dean before opening the creaking door carefully, ducking down to peer inside.

But Dean was still asleep, didn't wake even at his father's warning. He lay awkwardly slumped against the car's side door so his leg could remain stretched out and elevated on a stuffed duffel and some rolled up sweaters. He was listing slightly to the right, trying to keep his left side as straight as possible, left arm held tightly against his side by his good right hand. As much as he was listing to the right, his head was turned the other way, towards the backrest, neck craned no doubt painfully but enabling him to lean his forehead against the soft leather there, tip of his nose brushing up against it. His brow was furrowed in silent emotion – pain, most likely.

He looked all of 12 years old, lying there like that, pale and gaunt, the right side of his face mainly devoid of bruising, which made his freckles stand out even more starkly against his unhealthy complexion. The only color seemed to be coming from the dark smudge of purple underneath his eye, cast into even deeper shadow by long, slightly damp lashes laying flush against his cheeks.

For a painful moment, looking at his son's profile, the straight nose and strong jaw, the arch of his eyebrows and tilt of his eyes, John was reminded so much of Mary, his heart gave a painful squeeze inside his chest, thumbing against his ribcage violently. Even after all this time he clearly remembered her face as if it had been just yesterday…

But as soon as it had appeared, the image was gone again, brutally shattered as Dean shifted uneasily in his sleep, rolling his head against the glass of the window, exposing the other side of his face to John. The side that still looked a mess, discolored and bruised, still sporting a row of stitches from the corner of his eye to his temple, slightly swollen even after a little more than two weeks of hospitalization.

John winced a little at the sight, still not used to it, after all this time he'd spent at Dean's side in the hospital, despite all the numerous times he'd seen his son in a similar state of hurt in the past. To see his own son like this…

Dean groaned softly as he attempted to roll a little more to the side, trying to adjust his aching body in the seat, most obviously failing.

They really should be getting inside, get Dean settled down more comfortably.

John reached out a hand, carefully placing it atop Dean's right knee, applying a little pressure to pull his boy from the throws of exhausted slumber. Under normal circumstances, Dean would have been up and aware at the first contact, most likely, if not before that even, but now he again moaned, a little more pronounced this time, his brows drawing even more tightly together.

"Hey, come on kiddo, need to wake up. We're here." John coaxed gently, giving Dean's knee a little shake.

Dean rolled his head back against the window, lips smacking open, lids closing ever more tightly for a second before he slowly began the seemingly arduous task of blinking himself awake. It looked like it was hard work, lashes glued together by stubborn grit, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead in an attempt to make the lids follow them on their upwards trail.

John sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm and not press Dean any further, to give him time. It had never come easy to John to be patient, unfortunately, especially with his eldest. He thought that he might have had marginally better patience with Sam – in the very early days, when Sam had still been a baby, had started to toddle around, had started to go to the toilet, eat by himself, dress himself, learn how to read. With Dean…once Mary had been gone and the boys were solely John's responsibility all of a sudden he'd come to rely on his oldest to listen to his father's commands, quick and efficient, without ever questioning them.

Of course, his longanimity with his youngest probably resulted out of the fact that Dean carried most of the responsibility for his little brother right from the beginning. During those rare times that John could spent some quiet times with his baby-boy, Dean would be around, finishing up other stuff for John, like cleaning his guns or folding his clothes or even cooking him meals. He'd _give_ John the time he needed to spend with Sam, in turn hardly ever sparing time that John could spent with only _Dean._

But for all the patience he'd had with Sam in the beginning, the kid had made him pay a thousand times over once he'd hit his teenage years, spinning out of control all of a sudden. That's what he got for his efforts, John mused quietly.

"Hey…" Dean breathed the word more than said it, and when John's focus trained back onto his son he saw that the relatively peaceful innocence that had took possession of him in sleep had been erased so thoroughly, it gave him another full-bodied jolt that felt positively like a kick to the guts.

The lines around his eyes, around the corners of his mouth, all across his forehead…they spoke a clear enough language without Dean ever saying as much as one single word.

"Hey, sleep well, princess?"

It was an endearment John had hardly – no - not ever used since he'd hardly ever had the time or the ease to tease his sons at it was. But he'd always found it hilarious when Dean called – had called – Sam that. It had always made him smile, inside and out, when his sons had gotten into an argument over the various nicknames Dean pinned on his brother, had always reveled in the rare feeling of calm and peace he only ever felt around his boys, ever, to begin with. Sam's face scrunched up with indignity, trying his hardest to find a smart and spontaneous comeback to his brother's barbs…it had been too good to not enjoy it.

John had always enjoyed his sons bantering and teasing, despite the fact that it had driven him crazy at times. But maybe it was true what they said – that you only tease what you love most…and his sons teasing was a clear enough sign of how much they truly cared for each other.

As if he'd needed any confirmation…

Using the light-hearted endearment now John hoped it would make Dean feel a little more at ease around him.

John wasn't an idiot. He knew that his eldest was rarely ever loose and relaxed around him anymore since Sam was gone, maybe even before that. Dean was ever on guard, ever evaluating his father's moods, trying to dampen the worst, sometimes only succeeding in making it worse, though.

Especially when Dean was hurt, he barely ever let his guard down around his father. It was as if he was ashamed, as if he feared that John would think less of him because he wasn't completely on top of his game… Had he really ever made Dean feel that way?

"Where's here?" Dean asked on an exhale, pulling his body upwards with a wince, not yet entirely able to put his mask back in place. The pain was clearly etched onto his features like a blinking signpost.

"Where's here…what?" John inquired, momentarily lost at his son's question.

"Said we're _here_. Don't know where here would be…didn't tell me…where we were going." Dean clarified, rolling his lips against his teeth as he levered himself carefully more upright, arm pressed vigorously against his abdomen and side now.

John reached for the duffel and sweaters underneath Dean's cast, pulling them free while carefully keeping a hold on Dean's leg to not let it drop down to the seat.

"Remember the house we used to live in a couple of times…you almost burned down the garage once, trying to get rid of a rat's body so it wouldn't come back as a malevolent spirit?"

Dean had insisted that dead critters had to be burned, too, and John had had a hard time reasoning with that – be it an 8-year-old logic or not.

Dean nodded while levering himself upright.

"I still got a PO Box in town…" John continued his explanation as he leaned forward to assist his son "…there should be a couple new cards waiting for us. Plus, we stay here for fee, so we can spend our hard earned money on the nicer things in life."

Dean accepted the explanation with a curt nod. He seemed to need all his energy on slowly shifting his body forward, shuffling across the seat as John held on to his leg, placing it carefully on the ground once it cleared the Impala's backseat.

The change in elevation made Dean pale a couple more shades below white, but he started to get up despite it all, needing to straighten his painfully constricted chest and abdomen. John quickly moved to stand next to his son, wrapping one arm around his back, as mindful as possible of his injuries but needing to support him nonetheless. The crutches were still in the foot room of the backseat and the way they were standing it was close to impossible to get them out and ready.

After much struggling and a minimum amount of cursing, John managed to free one stubborn crutch from its hiding place, placing it in Dean's right hand.

"You want the other one too?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nah…shoulder's still a little stiff…after all this driving…" Dean wheezed.

"Should have taken the damn wheelchair." John grumbled.

"Yeah…fat chance of you wheeling me around in that thing…"

"So you rather have me carry you, then?" John asked, only partly joking.

The death-glare Dean shot him was almost effective, too.

They hobbled their way into the house, John balancing Dean between himself and the crutch, trying to ignore his son's painful grunts and hisses of barely contained discomfort till he got him inside and the door safely closed behind their backs.

Dean's eyes immediately went towards the bedroom, eying it longingly, but John knew there were things they needed to take care of first.

"Bathroom first?" John inquired, seeing Dean's eyes darken minutely before going blank again.

Already, the skin across his back, where John's arm lay snugly against him, felt damp and way too warm, his breathing becoming harsher by the minute.

With bouts of indignity still painted all over his face Dean finally nodded in defeat, letting John haul him across the room into the bathroom and sit him down on the closed lid of the toilet.

John helped Dean strip down to his boxers, trying to ignore the hard set of his son's jaw, the dangerously blank eyes that did little to conceal how Dean felt about being manhandled like this. It wasn't so unusual - one of the needing the help of the other in getting their wounds taken care of – and they were father and son, for crying out loud, they'd probably seen each other naked more times than either of them could count.

But it wasn't that, and John knew it – it was the thought of _needing_ the help that made Dean bristle and cringe inside.

"You Ok to…" John let his voice trail off, hand gesturing towards the general direction of the toilet bowl.

"Hell yes, I am." Dean shot back, but the words weren't nearly as harsh as they could have been, John realized.

He helped Dean stand, helped him balance his weight on one leg, then turned around but didn't leave the room and instead turned on the water in the sink, taking off his own shirt before splashing water on his face and throat, his neck and arms.

"Remember that tree-house we built in the back of the yard? I checked – it's still there. Doesn't look like it would carry either one of us anymore, though." John chatted idly, drying his hands on one of the threadbare towels he found in the cupboard underneath the sink.

"And there used to be a swing set out back, too. But we had to demolish it one summer, used the poles to build some sort of weapon. I don't remember…"

When John was done washing up, feeling only marginally cleaner and if possible even less refreshed than before he turned around to find Dean struggling to close the toilet lid. He looked flushed, out of breath – and, if possible, in even more pain than before.

"It was a…blowgun… Used it…to fire some hex-packs…into that cave where the…forest fairies hid themselves…"

"Right, yeah. I remember now… Grilled them good, too."

John helped Dean sit down again, leaning the crutch against the wall before beginning to unwrap the bandages and dressings of Dean's wounds.

When he was done unwrapping Dean's torso John took a towel, soaked it in lukewarm water and began to gently wipe his son's body down, careful not to apply too much pressure, sparing the wider area of the abrasions and sutures, an even wider area around the still tender surgical wound in his abdomen.

John noted the way Dean's biceps bulged and twitched where he had his arm braced against the toilet tank, noted the way Dean's eyes remained open all the time but were closed off nonetheless, staring off into nothing. John saw that muscle in his son's jaw jump, the skin on his neck and throat and even his shoulders rolling like some living creature was trying to dig its way out of there from underneath.

When he was done John redid the dressings he'd removed, reapplied the supportive bandage around his son's chest to sustain the position of his cracked and bruised ribs. It would be much easier to breathe like this when he was lying down.

They didn't exchange any words during the procedure, John only muttering silent instructions and muted encouragements when he needed Dean to move over, lift a limb, turn around a bit. Dean complied without complaint and kept up his almost crushing silence until they were done and they'd made it into the bedroom, where John helped him lower himself down onto the bed.

Dean almost made it all the way to the mattress without voicing his discomfort, but finally failed at the finish line.

"Shit…" he groaned, coiling away from John as he tried to curl around his injured abdomen, tucking his chin against his aching shoulder in an attempt to quench any more sounds to spill from his lips.

John was left helpless for a second, recognizing the signs of his son turning _away_ from him instead of towards him.

There was only one thing he could do really – because this right now was the time for make up – for setting things right again, maybe.

John got up, wrestled the old and musky smelling sheet and comforter out from underneath his son's rigid body, making a mental note to get all their blankets out of the Impala later, feeling guilty as hell for dragging Dean out of the hospital when he was so obviously still in pain, still so far from healed.

But it was what Dean had wanted, too, right? It was what he'd wanted. And they hadn't had another choice, goddamnit…

John draped the blankets over his son, then went to retrieve his duffel from the floor next to the bed.

"I'll get your meds ready." He said in a low and soothing voice, yet loud enough for Dean to hear if he cared to listen.

He prepared all the pills and capsules that were supposed to help Dean feel better, were supposed to help him heal, then got a glass of water and assisted Dean in holding himself up while feeding the pills to him one by one, chasing them down until the water glass was finally empty. When Dean was settled down again, eyes closed, lips tight and colorless, John sank back against the wall next to his son's bed, suddenly feeling deflated. Like one of those blow-up puppets that had been left lying in the corner for too long…

It wasn't right that Dean should suffer like this because John hadn't managed to provide him with the merest of necessities – a normal life, free of injury and pain, a life with a regular job, a place to let his guard down, to let go and be himself. The knowledge that, if they needed to, they could go and get themselves treated in a hospital without fearing for their fake insurance to blow or the cops arresting them.

A home.

Dean shifted, arranging his body into the least painful position, waiting for the drugs to take effect and carry him away at least for a while. John knew it wouldn't be soon enough, though. Never soon enough…

He reached for the remote to the small, ancient TV that stood on an old wooden dresser against the wall, turning it on to the first of the three available channels that came on, not caring what it showed. He turned the volume down low, but still loud enough for the sounds of some sort of lawyer's show to fill the room.

Out of the corner of his eyes John could see Dean crack an eye open, not to watch the show but to appraise his father through barely recognizable gaps in his thick lashes. Then he flinched again, brow drawing tighter, breathing quickening and he close the slit of green again, sinking deeper into the mattress. His flanks heaved, muscles in his jaw and neck bulging and shifting, nostrils flaring. It was almost unbearable to watch.

John shifted his back to lean against the wall, his shoulder against his son's mattress so he would feel any shift he made, any movement. But it wasn't enough, left him feeling so helpless, John finally snaked one hand up and over the mattress until he made contact with the knotted and coiled muscles of his son's back, felt them twist and flinch as he made contact, but soon they relaxed against the warm plane of his palm as he pressed it against Dean's back, refusing to be pushed away this time.

God knew he'd let it happen too many times already, had done some serious pushing and rejecting himself. John didn't let himself be deceived by false hope, knew that this wasn't going to be permanent, that before long, they'd be back in their old routine again, stuck with reproaches and recriminations that were only partly unfounded – on both their parts.

But for now he was going to see past that, past their difficulties, past the giant pink elephant that was Sam's absence lurking in the corner and give his son what he needed.

He just sat and pretended to watch TV while his thoughts drifted in a thousand different directions at once.

After what felt like hours but probably wasn't more than 30 minutes at the most, Dean finally relaxed, body growing heavier and heavier as the drugs pulled him under, providing whatever little reprieve he could possibly get, nowadays.

Only then did John finally feel some of his own tenseness slipping off, only leaving behind the ever present layer of pressure that never went away for good anymore.

And he knew it wouldn't change anytime soon. Not at the rate that this was going. Certainly not if that lead he'd gotten a wind of a couple of months ago proved to be as solid as he thought – and secretly hoped it to be.

There'd been times, lately, when he'd thought that, maybe, Sam having left might even be a good thing, one less thing to worry about in this…situation. He'd thought that with only Dean left he wouldn't feel this unbearable pressure in his guts anymore, the mind-numbing fear that, one day, one of his sons would either get hurt or worse because of a war that John was fighting to revenge someone long lost. Sure, she'd been their mother, but there were times when John thought that maybe they were fighting a war that wasn't theirs, but his'.

Theirs wasn't the only family in the world that had lost a mother to a violent death. There were thousands of kids growing up without a mom. Nothing would ever make that alright, but most of those kids lived long, happy lives nonetheless. Most of those kids didn't live lives as warriors, on the run, like goddamn outlaws - didn't live their whole lives for the simple purpose of getting revenge.

But that wasn't it, and John knew it. Or, was about to know it…hopefully for sure one day soon. There had to be a purpose in what he – what they were doing. Other than revenging Mary, that was. If he was right…if those things he'd heard whispered behind covering hands, had read between the lines of other hunter's journals, had heard being told straight to his face, for crying out loud…if those things turned out to be true… Maybe this whole war had another purpose entirely than to revenge, maybe he would be able to save someone who wasn't lost, yet.

John just wasn't sure if he could afford to risk taking Dean along on the journey he was about to embark on, or if the distraction of worrying for his son would prove to be too risky, in the end.

Dean shifted in sleep, body slipping into deeper slumber as the tension of his muscles eased off, face going slack. John got up, arranged his son's leg on a pillow, rearranging his limbs until he didn't look like he was twisted up like a pretzel, like he could actually sleep through the night without giving him frozen neck-muscles to add to his problems.

He knew he should be doing a whole lot of things before going to sleep himself, knew he should get the house reasonably clean, for starters, get the fridge running and some supplies to fill it. He should chop some wood, get a fire going, maybe put some new wards and spells up while he was at it. There was a thousand things to do still, but for the first time in maybe years John knew that they were going to stay here for a while.

Maybe the time together did them good, in the end, managed to reestablish some of what they'd seemed to have lost, lately, lost somewhere along the miles and miles they'd travelled ever since Sam had left.

Like road rash - each mile on the road scraping another tiny little piece off their relationship…

So, a couple of days or weeks of laying low, of reconstructing their partnership – it was nothing compared to what Dean had sacrificed already, was it?

John could deal with that.

It was a small price to pay for his son's life.

A price John was more than willing to pay.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_Hey guys. Thank you so much for reading – as always, and special thanks to all those who reviewed or put this story on alert or marked it as their favorite. _

_I know my insecurities can be unnerving, which is why I owe you even more for not ignoring me but actually sticking with me and building me back up. _

_Some of you wanted to see John's point of view on the 'early escape' from the hospital – and this chapter was actually already written that way, so I hope it was what you were hoping for._

_That said, I have to tell you that I might not be able to post the next chapter next week. I'll try, of course, but I'm not sure I'm going to manage. I want to treat this story with respect and not rush anything out that I'm not totally convinced of. I usually have a couple chapters in store before even starting to post and then just develop the story further as I go along. I've been very busy for the past couple of weeks, first I've been sick, but I had to go back to work early because I now have to fill in for a colleague who's going to be on sick-leave for another two months at least…so I've been lacking behind in writing a little._

_But – doing better now__ - physically, and I've restocked on a lot of energy again! (been to a 'thirty seconds to mars' concert yesterday – pure awesomeness to those who like the music!) _

_So, next chapter will be up maybe next week, but definitely the week after that, I promise. I'm back in the flow now, so there's no stopping me ;-)_

_Please don't bail out on me – those of you who've read my other stories now that I never leave anything hanging for long. As long as you still like this and want me to continue, I will! _

_As always, I'd love to hear what you think, so please find the time to drop me a short note – __save me from drowning in self-doubt again ;-)_

_Love you all and take care!_


	12. Chapter 12

_Yeah, I'm back. I know it's been a long, long delay, and I really need to apologize, altough I don't really have anything to say in my defense._

_I just had a bunch of stuff to deal with and it couldn't be ignored any longer...work was killing me, and I just couldn't shake an illness that's been with me for weeks now. And that's jsut a tiny part of it. I was so done in that I thought I'd never be able to write again...and then the most amazing thing happened. I managed to center myself again and before I knew it, I was writing again. Couldn't stop anymore. So...I can pretty much promise you that it's not going to come to such long delays anymore and hope you'll belive me. _

_I hope you haven't given up on this story and are still with me._

_'nuff said for now. I hope you'll enjoy:_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**the road so far:**

_Dean shifted in sleep, body slipping into deeper slumber as the tension of his muscles eased off, face going slack. John got up, arranged his son's leg on a pillow, rearranging his limbs until he didn't look like he was twisted up like a pretzel, like he could actually sleep through the night without giving him frozen neck-muscles to add to his problems._

_He knew he should be doing a whole lot of things before going to sleep himself, knew he should get the house reasonably clean, for starters, get the fridge running and some supplies to fill it. He should chop some wood, get a fire going, maybe put some new wards and spells up while he was at it. There was a thousand things to do still, but for the first time in maybe years John knew that they were going to stay here for a while._

_Maybe the time together did them good, in the end, managed to reestablish some of what they'd seemed to have lost, lately, lost somewhere along the miles and miles they'd travelled ever since Sam had left._

_Like road rash - each mile on the road scraping another tiny little piece off their relationship…_

_So, a couple of days or weeks of laying low, of reconstructing their partnership – it was nothing compared to what Dean had sacrificed already, was it?_

_John could deal with that._

_It was a small price to pay for his son's life._

_A price John was more than willing to pay._

OoOoOoO

**Chapter 12**

He woke to a soft, humming sound, a distorted melody that filled the otherwise quiet room with a warm sense of familiarity, of home, immediately setting his otherwise muddled mind at ease a little.

Dean had never done good with waking up in places he didn't remember going to sleep in, knew it only happened when he was completely out of it - which could only mean one of two things – drunk or injured.

Neither option was good.

But the humming had him settling down immediately, told him that he wasn't alone, first and foremost, and that he was with someone that knew and cared about him enough to do this for him.

Dean had always, ever since he was a little boy, used music as a pacifier, as a means of reassurance and calming. Maybe it was a last remnant of his mom, singing him to sleep, humming to him whenever he was sick or scared or simply not feeling well. He didn't consciously remember much of those days long lost, but it was the parts he did remember that had him clinging to what little was still lodged in his brain. Her singing had always helped and, he had to admit it, the approach still worked on him now, 24 years old and all grown up for sure.

For a couple of minutes Dean just lay there, letting his mind settle, his memories fill in some of the blank spots that had gathered around the frayed edges of his dreams.

Black dog.

The field.

Hospital.

It came back too fast, almost, swamping his tired brain with unpleasant images, with feelings of pain and helplessness, both inside and out.

Dean shifted a little, carefully testing his bodies boundaries, finding the limitations of moving without any kind of discomfort pretty darn close to his initial position, but also detecting that he was able to push past said barriers easily enough, persuading his body to keep moving without too much of a hassle. This pain he knew how to handle – always had. Had even welcomed it at times, using the feeling to ground himself, to tether himself to reality when his brain threatened to overflow with emotions that had no right to be there whatsoever.

Dean tried to roll himself over and to the side, trying to get closer to the source of the humming. It was like a siren's pull, almost, drawing him closer…

He gasped as his side pulled taut in protest, his broken leg slipping off the pillow it had obviously been bedded on, thudding a little too heavily to the mattress underneath.

There were heavy steps coming towards him and Dean instinctively drew back, his back pressing into something soft, worked on opening his eyes which seemed to be cemented shut by thick grit, making it almost impossible to pry his eyes apart. This wasn't the usual wake-up-after-a-night's-sleep-grit he was talking about here, it was a very insistent, very determined grit that he only ever knew after days spent in a coma-like, fever induced slumber.

The steps stopped right in front of him and Dean braced himself for the contact he knew was about to come, unconsciously knowing that it could only be one person, really, that only one person had stood by him all this time and yet he couldn't get himself to ease off. He didn't like being touched out of the blue. And he still feared that somehow his dad had managed to cheat him with feelings of false security and hope and had left him after all, that it would be somebody else's hand bearing down on him.

But instead of the anticipated touch came…nothing, no physical contact at least, and Dean heard floorboard creak and groan as someone shifted his weight in front of him before a faint warm swell of air rushed over Dean's face.

"Hey there, you with me again?"

Dad.

Of course dad – there'd been no other option, really.

For a second or two Dean contemplated faking sleep, reveling in the peace he found lying here, just knowing that he wasn't alone, ignoring the world just a little longer. But hiding had never been his MO – unfortunately.

"Dean, come on. I know you're awake – don't you think you're overdoing it a little with all the beauty sleep lately?"

There was soft warmth in John's voice, tinged with something akin to worry, but dad wouldn't worry, would he? Besides, why the hell _would_ he worry? Just because he'd caught up on some sleep after taking a freaking trip across country, fresh out of the hospital and all…

"Come on…Dean…"

The warm air on his face was dad's breath, Dean realized, wincing a little at the thought of his father practically leaning in his face.

"Dad?" Dean breathed out, surprised at how rough and painful his own voice sounded, as if he'd chewed on sandpaper for hours straight.

Floorboards groaned again and Dean finally managed to work open a tiny slit in his tangled lashes, making out a very fuzzy yet unmistakable figure looming in front of him.

"Yeah it's me. Who else did you expect?" John questioned quietly.

It wasn't as much who he'd been expecting, but who he'd been hoping for…

But instead of coming back with some smart remark about a pretty blonde, doing what he did best – diverting attention away from himself with humor, Dean heard himself say the next words as if someone else was saying them.

"You're still here…"

The silence that followed his statement was palpable, and while Dean didn't really grasp what he'd just said, what those innocent words could mean to his father. He was oblivious to the punch he'd dealt, was only aware that something was wrong when his father didn't say anything for a seemingly endless amount of time.

The pause in conversation at least served to give Dean time to pry apart his glued lashes, finally able to open both his eyes all the way and blink himself fully back to awareness.

So, this definitely was real.

Dad right in front of him, face _way_ to close for comfort, was a disconcerting yet undeniable proof of that.

"Where else would I be?" John asked, a little too calmly, maybe, and Dean had to think for a moment till he remembered the question he himself had posed just seconds ago.

_Huh, now_. _What could he say to that?_

Thankfully though, his dad decided then and there to defuse the clearly uncomfortable situation, give Dean the much needed way out – sparing himself the answer to his own question, maybe.

"You going to stay awake for longer than a minute at a time now? Because I really did start to think that I'd have to start checking you for pressure sores there."

Dean decided that this was a good a time as any to try and sit up, realizing that, while his arms were a little shaky and weak still, his breath stuttering a little as the change in position pulled at his injuries as well as on muscles he hadn't been aware he had, he actually was able to shift position without passing out from pain. Which was a big improvement. Way better than he remembered being just…

…how long ago? And what the hell was that about pressure sores?

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position and John didn't help, just kept a steadying hand at his back, levering him as he shuffled back a little, then pushing a pillow against his back with his free hand.

Not smothering, not crowding him, just being there, a reassuring presence.

Just being there.

"You good like this?" John asked and the answer came as easily as if it was an automated reaction.

"Fine, I'm fine."

John just sighed a little.

"So…why am I…" Dean looked around for the first time, recognizing the surroundings as if they hadn't changed at all in the years since he'd last been here.

"Why am I lying on the sofa…in the living room?"

He distinctively remembered lying down on the bed in the den, waiting for sleep – or unconsciousness to finally claim him – whichever happened to get there first.

John sat back on his haunches, leaning towards the little table besides the couch and grabbing a bottle of water standing there.

"You had a pretty high fever."

As if that explained everything.

Dean rolled his head a little, feeling the muscles and bones in his neck pop and pull, felt the familiar tickle of post-feverish skin, the slightly stale smell of sweat clinging to his body, to his very core. So – high fever…yeah, might explain a couple of things, actually, but not how he'd somehow ended up on the threadbare sofa.

"And I couldn't just stay in my bed, why?"

John uncapped the bottle of water, handing it to Dean and holding on to it just long enough till he was sure that he had a firm enough grip on it. Somehow Dean was incredibly thankful for the very simple gesture, being granted whatever tiny little piece of independence the mere act of drinking a bottle of water by himself provided him with.

"You know how you get with a fever…" John stalled, looking at Dean with a tiny smile on his lips.

"Yeah? How do I get?" Dean asked against his better knowledge, needing to know the details, needing to fill in the blanks still dominating his mind.

"Well…you tend to…you get a bit…you insisted that there were…graboids in the mattress. I had to move you out here because you wouldn't stay in the damn bed…"

Dean couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the explanation, almost choking on a mouthful of water in his surprise.

"Graboids?" he asked, a little baffled.

He wouldn't have been able to name the damn creatures consciously if he'd tried…

"Yeah. Made me promise I had to burn the mattress out back, too."

"Ok, yeah…sounds reasonable though, doesn't it?"

Again John smiled, taking the now empty bottle from Dean, who longingly looked around the room, knuckles of his right hand trying to dislodge still stubbornly tangled lashes, vision still a little fuzzy as he searched for something else to drink. His throat was dry, his body seemingly parched. He felt like he hadn't had anything to drink in a week.

"How long have I been out?" he finally asked, recognizing the signs his body sent out, realizing that he didn't feel this spent and fuzzy after a mere night of fever – no matter the how bad it had been.

John's face scrunched up and for a moment he looked so beat, so tired…so much older than Dean ever remembered him looking, ever before. He'd always pictured his dad as this invincible force, this never-aging warrior, undefeatable and unimpressionable by anything. Right now he looked like he was pretty much at the end of his strength, though.

It seemed as if, lately, Dean discovered a lot of things about John that had him doubting his former unrelenting faith in his father's abilities. He didn't like to think that way, fought it with all his might. He'd always berated Sam for being so damn questioning, so doubting…

John pushed himself to his feet, joints popping, crossed the way to the kitchen with long strides, opening a cupboard above the sink. He took out a bottle of some soda, wrenching it open while making his way back to Dean's side.

He handed Dean the drink, quietly instructing him to go slowly.

"Dad, how long?" Dean insisted, having to fight the urge to drown the whole damn bottle with one big gulp, only succeeding in taking small sips because he knew that he was going to make himself sick if drinking too much too fast.

"This is day 3 now. You've been out for two days and three nights since we arrived. You've been awake, mind you, but I guess you weren't really there – were delirious. I kept thinking that those pills I got you wouldn't work at all, thought I'd have to take you back to the hospital…"

Dean sat up a little straighter, trying to take his dad's words in.

More than two days. Damn. He must have been doing just about as bad as he'd actually felt…

"Dean, be honest with me. How are you feeling? And remember, I'm your father, I know when you're lying. And I can still ground your ass if you do…" John pressed, his tone a mixture of gentle teasing and actual threat.

Dean decided that there wasn't really a way out of this. Not this time. Not after everything John had seen, not after everything that had happened.

He took a moment to assess his body more carefully, taking stock of himself.

His head hurt a bit, fuzzy and doped still, his shoulder and side, his hip and thigh burning and throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but the deep, bone-charring ache he remembered had been reduced to an actually tolerable level. His leg…well…the leg still hurt a fair bit more - a constant pressure radiating out from his shin to sneak up towards his hip and down to his ankle, but again – it was background noise, more or less bearable at the moment. Dean had no doubt that the drugs were to be given credit for that, but it sure as hell was something Dean was more than willing to accept.

"I'm better." Was all he could come up with, but he knew that John would be able to read the answer for what it was worth. It was as honest as Dean could play it.

And it was the truth, actually. He knew he was far from being alright, knew he still had a way to go, but for the first time in weeks he was convinced that he might be able to make it after all.

OoOoOoO

John watched Dean go about his days with barely contained patience.

It wasn't so much impatience with his son's condition, but impatience with the whole situation in general. This had to be the longest they'd ever stayed dormant for the past…well, John didn't even remember the number of years anymore.

Once, when Dean must have been around 18, he'd broken his collar bone and had been laid up for a number of weeks, but after the first week of tending to his son's injuries, John had been able to set out and hunt again on his own, at least. Dean had needed help, sure, but back then Sam had still been there to help his brother, helped him deal with the things he couldn't do himself at the time.

It was funny how lately, the reasons for why they had been dealing so much better as a threesome came rushing back at John, ready and more than willing to bite him in the ass.

Dean was doing better now but still John knew that he was far from ready to hit the road again any time soon. Not until his wounds were healed – certainly not until he would be able to at least walk on that wretched leg of his'.

If anything, the past two days of Dean struggling to reconstruct some of his old routines, of _their_ old routines, showed how far from back to normal they still were.

Dean insisted on making them dinner – with what little supplies they had still left, but John was surprised once again when his son came up with a surprisingly vast variety of different sandwiched that he'd somehow managed to scrape up from what he'd found in the pantries.

Dean was making them with steady hands, standing at the kitchen counter, hip canted against the wood to keep from falling over, his hands working steadily, only the hard set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his back betraying how even standing up still proved to be a hassle. And he had to rely on John to carry the plate over, had to let John clear the table and grab their drinks as well.

John knew Dean tried his best to reestablish some semblance of normal, but unfortunately the normal he was aiming for was so far off from what their _normal_ had been for the past months, or even years, if he was just a bit honest with himself.

He watched his son, incredulously, until Dean squirmed and writhed underneath John's gaze, clearly uncomfortable with being watched so intently, and John once again limited his observations to secrecy, giving in to his son's need to stay under the radar. He himself had raised his son to shy away from the prying eyes of others, always conscious to appear normal where in reality he was anything but.

But this…this felt kinda nice, John had to admit that. Hurt like hell, too. Like a prying, stabbing, piercing reminder of what he'd lost…or missed out on. Of what could have been…

When they'd eaten, John waited the barely 30 minutes he knew his son would be able to pull off before excusing himself, mumbling a barely audible string of apologies before retreating to the den once more.

He still tired easily.

And he was far from fine, as he so often tried to reassure his father.

But he was once again able and willing to try and play strong in front of his father, and that told John that at least they were moving in the right direction now.

Once Dean was out of the room, the door behind his back closed so John wouldn't hear him huffing and puffing his way into bed, needing a while till his next round of meds pulled him off to sleep again, John got up, cleared away the dishes and quietly slipped out the back door, hoping that Dean wouldn't hear the creaking hinges.

Only outside he was finally able to pull a decent breath, letting it out with a stuttering sigh as he was, for the first time in weeks, able to let his own guard down a little as well. When being with his son, he needed to be strong, needed to appear as if he knew exactly what he was doing, as if he knew what was the best for Dean, the best for himself. He couldn't afford for Dean to find out that John Winchester had no clue whatsoever, really, that he was just as lost as Dean was.

With one last look at the house, John shrugged off all feelings of guilt, of responsibility and walked away into the trees surrounding the property.

OoOoOoO

Dean stood in the middle of a seemingly endless ocean of wheat.

Standing tall, both his legs easily carrying his weight, body held upright without any effort, back straight and strong, chest light and unburdened. His lungs pulled oxygen so effortlessly, it felt strangely foreign, inexplicably _easy_.

He felt…almost too much at peace, with himself and the world in general.

Dean knew he shouldn't be feeling like this, knew it wasn't normal, but for once he couldn't get himself to care.

This was just too…too intoxicatingly perfect to shatter the moment of peace that had him under its spell as if he'd been drugged.

Well, there had to be worse things in the world, right?

The greenish golden stalks reached up to Dean's mid chest, tips of the scratchy ears brushing lightly against his body, teasing his skin with the faintest of tickling touches. Unconsciously, Dean reached a hand towards his pecs, feeling the swaying stalks glide through his fingers, caressing his skin with a gentleness that was both foreign and all too familiar to him. Like a woman's touch, almost, and the contrast of soft, velvety feminine lips to the coarse whiskers of the wheat-heads sent a small wave of goose-bumps chasing down his body.

The wind was picking up a little, the stalks moving as if they were one big, giant being, crowding in around him, like people on a dance floor closing in on a solitary dancer, attempting to swallow him whole, make him part of the pulsing, vibrant crowd.

It was the same field, Dean realized, the same field that had swallowed him whole once before already, that had barely let him go again, spitting him out into the gruesome reality that was his life.

Their life.

Dean shook his head as a small twinge crept its way up his spine and right into his brain at the thought. But as soon as the thought had appeared it was gone again, dropping Dean right back into the same void he'd just barely peeked out from. He blinked his lids sluggishly, raising his head to let his gaze roam over the field all around him.

The same field, but the terror that had gone down here was strangely absent, as if this was just a copy, an imitation. As if someone had plucked the memory from his dreams, had raided his brain for the image to duplicate it, bringing it all to life…only without the _life_.

Without the emotion…

Dean looked down on himself, having to brush away the stalks growing so close to him that he couldn't see much farther than his upper chest. With a jolt of surprise he realized that he was wasn't wearing a shirt, but a more thorough investigation revealed that, much to his relief, he did have his jeans on at least. His shoes and socks were missing, but Dean wasn't cold, barely felt anything else but the sensation of the wheat snuggling up against him.

He knew that this wasn't real.

Just a dream – although a different one than the ones before.

And because he knew, Dean was even more curious as to why he was here – if only in his dream – to what he was doing here.

He gave up the inspection of his own body, dropping his arms to his sides, feeling the stalks closing in around him once more, like a welcoming blanket, providing safety and comfort, almost. When he returned his eyes to the horizon, he suddenly realized that the field wasn't as empty as it had looked at first sight.

In the distance a flock of crows was circling low over the field, so far away that Dean could only make them out as black pinpoints against the grey-blue sky, but they were unmistakable nonetheless.

Suddenly, there was a deep, grating pressure filling into the pit of his stomach, ever growing until the tendrils of dread reached up to claw their way into his chest, wrapping greedy fingers around his heart in a vice like grip.

It became hard to breathe again…

And then he was running.

His bare feet seemed to barely touch ground as Dean ran, strong, long strides propelling him forward, the sea of wheat parting just barely to let him pass through before drifting closed again against his back, deleting any trace that he'd ever been there.

His heart was thudding more and more loudly inside his chest but it wasn't due to physical exertion – the physical aspect was strangely absent still. It was something deeper, something more visceral…

The crows.

Dean ran without even consciously being aware of it, his body strong and untiring, yet somehow he didn't seem to get any closer to his destination, the crows still as far away as they'd been minutes ago already.

And still he didn't stop, kept going with all he had.

This was a dream…just a dream, Dean tried over and over to remind himself, tried to make his legs stop moving, tried to stop his body's relentless forward-motion. Just one of those dreams where you could run all you wanted, but you'd never arrive or escape, no matter how hard you tried.

Never.

Just a goddamn dream…

And still he couldn't stop trying, couldn't keep his focus off the goal, persuade his legs to cease their incessant pumping.

He had to get closer, had to find out what the birds were circling above, what they wanted to show him…

And then one of the crows broke free of the group, came soaring straight towards Dean. The fact that Dean seemingly didn't move one single inch closer to his goal didn't apply to the bird, apparently, as it flapped its large wings merely a handful of times before it was clearly distinguishable, its black feathers reflecting the diffuse sunlight. It was so close, Dean thought he could make out an object that was dangling from the birds beak, something small and white attached to a string of leather…

Dean had stopped running, finally, his muscles still twitching as if they didn't agree with the sudden change in movement.

The crow again…that same crow he kept seeing in his dreams, that he kept remembering whenever his memories drifted back to that night…

The woman appeared out of nowhere, stepping in Dean's path just a couple of feet in front of him as if she was just casually strolling along a deserted sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to Dean's presence.

Dean's head snapped towards the figure so quickly, his neck gave an audible pop as muscle and vertebras protested the movement viciously. For a second, his vision tunneled, heat washing up his neck and seemingly straight into his brain. But Dean refused to abandon his quest, didn't give in to the vicious urge to cradle his head in his hands, dig strong fingers into his skull to stop the pounding there.

When he could see clearly again the crow was gone, vanished maybe into the field, but for the moment Dean hardly even noticed. Instead he was left to watch in rapt fascination as the seemingly naked woman slowly walked past him, only a couple of feet in front of him, back straight, only the top curve of her full breasts peeking out from the wheat's swaying heads.

As much as his body had refused to stop moving before he now found himself almost completely paralyzed, seemingly even as much as able to move one single muscle.

Dean just stood and stared, mesmerized by her graceful and fluid motions, the thick cover of stalks almost making it look like she was just a disconnected head and shoulders floating above the green-golden heads of the wheat.

Her skin was smooth, a light golden brown illuminated by the sun at her back, the fine hair on her skin appearing to form a halo around her. Her shoulders hung low and relaxed, her collar bone standing out against the otherwise smooth curve of her upper body. Even though squinting against the sun Dean could clearly make out the thin band of leather laying around her slender neck, a small object, something white wrapped into something furry, the package resting just at the juncture between her breasts.

It looked almost like the same necklace the crow had been carrying…

When she turned her head towards him, slowly and almost trance like, yet faster than Dean could manage, unable to avert his gaze in time, suddenly finding himself eye to eye with her. Dean felt his heart-beat speed up once more, felt the pulse beating through the skin on his neck.

Those eyes…

They were murky brown, amazingly unremarkable in color or setting, her face anything but pretty, yet there was something about her that had Dean's breath stuttering inside his chest, puffing out of his lips in almost painful bursts. For seconds or minutes or years there was nothing but her face, filling Dean's whole vision, his whole being.

Dean felt himself faltering, his body trembling, ready to drop, but it was as if her gaze was holding him captive, pulling him closer, even, his body swaying as he fought against her pull, hands spreading out to his sides a little, trying to tether himself to the spot. There was no sound anymore, not around him, not _inside_ him, his chest and head so silent, it was almost deafening.

She kept moving, walking very slowly but steadily and while she was still holding his gaze she suddenly started to change. Slowly, ever so slowly her features seemed to pull taut over her bones , seemed to spread and melt and lose shape, morphing into something different than the woman she'd been just seconds ago.

Dean felt every muscle in his body go even more rigid then before, doubling his efforts to pull away from her, to move away but still he couldn't, couldn't even turn his head to break eye-contact, to not witness the disturbing transformation happening right before his very eyes. He watched her with a mixture of fascination and terror, saw her humanity slowly bleed away, her face becoming grayish in color, her hair frizzling out, becoming shorter and coarser, the whole shape of her head changing into that of a…

…a wolf.

Dean blinked in terrified surprise as she transformed completely, her head that of a wolf, not a woman anymore, right down to the piercing amber eyes, the small, pointy ears, the long muzzled snout, tips of two long and deadly sharp canine teeth protruding from the black muzzles.

The muscles on the back of Dean's neck screamed in pain as he fought to draw back his head, snap out of the deadly paralysis, and he felt his lips pulling taut over his teeth as he groaned with the effort, nostrils flaring. She was going to get him, was going to attack him and all he could do was stand there and…

…she was gone so abruptly, the sudden emptiness around him made him stumble, made him gulp in a surprised gasp. Just as suddenly, his body seemed to be released from the invisible hold that had paralyzed him and Dean literally stumbled backwards, his muscles unable to shut off the information Dean's brain had been sending their way for seemingly endless minutes till now.

Dean flailed backwards, arms spreading out yet unable to remain his equilibrium and he tumbled to the ground, falling into a dark pit it almost seemed, as the stalks of wheat immediately closed over his head, like a giant mouth swallowing him whole.

Despite his still trembling muscles Dean was on his feet again within seconds, spinning in a slow circle, trying to figure out where she had gone, where the wolf had gone. But the wheat around him remained closed off - undisturbed, the air around him almost too still despite his own heavy breathing. She..._it_ was gone. Gone.

What the hell had that been all about?

What…

Dean had turned himself in another full circle and again was thrown totally off kilter when all of a sudden, upon turning the direction he'd been facing before, the flock of crows was right in front of him, a mere couple of feet away from his location.

_A dream…just a dream…_ Dean reminded himself over and over, his eyes flickering between the birds and the surrounding field, still unsure of the wolf's whereabouts, still unsure what to make of it. But the wolf…the creature was gone, as if it had never even been here in the first place. If it wasn't for the crows, Dean would be completely alone again.

Dean didn't know what to do, wanted desperately to wake up, escape this weird as hell dream and be done with it, go back to the nightmare that was his life.

Again, one of the crows broke away from the group circling overhead, and while there was no way to distinguish the animals by look alone, no way to be sure that this was the same bird as before, Dean felt a nervous flutter chase down low into his gut, felt his eyes glued to the animal as it descended upon the ground a couple of feet in front of him.

Out of sight…

…as if it was trying to make him go there, lure him to whatever the birds were circling above…

Dean took an experimental step forward, tasted the scent of damp earth on his palate, the slightly sweeter scent of the warming air around him. But somewhere close by there was something else invading his senses, a tangy scent that was but a faint idea at first, but quickly developed into a full on, breath-taking stench, making him gag involuntarily, his eyes starting to water. At the same time, it sent Dean's heartbeat into overdrive again, because as disgusting and unbelievable the reek was, he unfortunately knew it better than he would have liked, better than he ever cared to know.

Blood.

Lots of it.

Too much to be explained away noncommittally.

Which might explain the crows interest – and still left open too many questions to count.

Dean took a reluctant step forward, then another one, carefully parting the thick curtain of wheat with his hands, reluctant to just bash through – dreading what he would walk into.

Finally, his fingers parted the last patch of wheat, sliding into the cool air of nothing beyond, revealing a little clearing, a patch of stalks flattened by something heavy lying on top of them, folding them to the ground.

Dean stumbled to the ground, his hands slipping in the pool of blood that surrounded his father's lifeless body, trying to touch him, to grab him, to pull him up and against his chest. He knew it couldn't be true, knew that it was just a dream, that, all logic considered, this couldn't be real.

It couldn't be real.

And still it felt real, _felt_ so damn _real._

Dean sat crouched on the ground next to his father's fallen form, hands roaming over the cold and lifeless body, searching for a sign of life that he knew he wouldn't find.

His trembling fingers neared the gashing teeth marks on John's neck, trying feverishly to find a way to stop the bleeding, knowing full well that it wouldn't change anything, that it wouldn't get his father back. But there had to be a way. There had to be…

"It's not real." Dean whispered to himself, flinching at the tremor chasing through his own voice, the very edge of panic he was balancing on.

"It's not real…not real. This can't be real. It can't be – it won't."

His fingers lay against John's throat, slick with blood, the skin underneath cold and clammy.

"It can't…I won't _let_ it be real…"

He almost fell back on his haunches when suddenly the skin underneath his fingers started to ripple, coarse stubble of John's beard scraping against his hand as the lifeless body started moving, neck-muscles shifting as John turned his head.

Dean snatched his hand away from his father as if he'd been burned, body tense and coiled, ready to spring into action, to assist his father or turn away and run.

Then John's face turned towards Dean, deep brown eyes very much alive locking with Dean's.

"Dad…" Dean croaked, voice rough, tears springing to his eyes.

"You're alive…"

John just stared at him, his lips starting to move, forming unheard words.

Dean shimmied closer again, bracing his hands on the blood-soaked damp ground, leaning forward until he was only inches from his father's face.

John's voice was barely audible, a sickening, gurgling sound accompanying each word as blood continued to press out of the deep bite marks on his neck and shoulder.

"Save me…"

Dean felt his blood run cold, could have sworn it stopped pumping through his body altogether for a second or two at least.

"Save me…" John repeated, and Dean's mouth opened, but like a fish on dry land no word made it past his numb lips.

"You have to save me, Dean…"

Dean choked out a sound between a sob and a moan, nodding his head furiously as he swallowed hard, refusing to let out the desperate cry that wanted to push up from deep within his chest.

"Of course…of course I will. I'm going to get you out…"

Dean reached forward, intent on grabbing his father, on pulling him off the ground, on carrying him if he had to, when John's hand suddenly snapped up with impossible speed and strength, grabbing hold of Dean's biceps and clamping down hard, pulling him down. Dean barely was able to keep himself from toppling forward, bracing his other hand against the ground.

And then, right before his eyes, John's face started to change, transforming from the soft and familiar features of his father to the sharp, long, dark head of the crow.

Dean jerked back, one hand automatically reaching behind his back, for his gun, only to find out he'd come here unarmed. He tried to pull himself backwards, away from the abomination of the only person he still had left on this planet, tried to break free, but his father's grip was unrelenting, iron-nails digging into the soft skin on his inner arm.

"Save me!" his father's voice once again demanded out of the bird's sharp black beak, then the fingers around Dean's arm loosened and he tumbled backwards, hitting the ground hard.

It took him only seconds to gather himself up on his feet again, moving back a step to bring some space between himself and the creature that had taken over his dad's body when once again he was totally thrown off track by the sight that met his eyes.

The ground in front of him was empty, his dad – the crow – whatever it had actually been gone, the only sign that Dean hadn't just imagined it all the big pool of blood that stained the bent and broken stalks of wheat a deep, dark red.

But John was gone, and the only sound that was left in the still of the field was Dean's shattering cry of despair as he realized that another life had been ripped out of his grasp.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_So...I hope you weren't dissapointed, weren't waiting so long just to find this sucking all the way through._

_I'm going to cut this short - after such a long time not posting, I feel the need to get this out there and get working on the next chapter as soon as possible._

_Please, find that little extra minute to just drop me a review, let me know if you're still reading and if you liked it, just so I know I haven't lost you all with my involuntary hiatus. It would mean _especially_ much to me at this point._

_Thanks for reading and till next week (promise - cross my heart!)_

_Take care!_


	13. Chapter 13

_I'm back - and right on time - just like I promised ;-)_

_Sadly enough, I still don't own them, and I got to say it again - all mistakes are and will remain to be mine. I'll bite my a... the minute I post this and probably run across a million mistakes I missed the first dozen times or so I read through it - but what can I do...they keep hiding from me, I swear! But remember - I'm no native speaker, so maybe that earns me a couple bonus points... ;-)_

_anyways, thanks so much for reading and I really hope you enjoy!_

_Here we go:_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 13**

John was outside, chopping wood.

Now that Dean finally was past the worst of it, John did dare to move more than a couple of feet from his side, didn't need to sit there all day and all night, watching his son writhe and moan in his sleep, didn't need to make sure to be even closer when he lay perfectly still, too afraid that Dean might stop breathing all of a sudden.

Since he'd woken up his fever had stayed down. They were finally past it…

…past the worst of it – for the time being. Till they got another close call, another run-in with destiny.

So, chopping wood was the plan for today – however little distraction it provided him with - it would have to be enough for the time being.

And while John was still bone tired, ready to sleep for 24 hours straight, the physical exertion felt kinda nice, reviving almost. This, finally, was something he could _do_. This he had completely under control. And it was the perfect way to unleash some of that pent up energy that had been eating him alive ever since Dean had been injured. Being holed up and kept out of the loop for weeks, waiting for Dean to heal, fearing for him along the way had done nothing to settle John's nerves any.

There was a small patch of trees at the back of the house, and for some reason there always was plenty of firewood stacked under the aluminum roof built against the back wall of the house, but John decided that he'd rather get at the pile of bigger blocks of wood all the way at the back of the yard. He'd needed to get away for a little while, for himself as much as his son's sake. They weren't used to spending so much time solely by themselves – in each other's faces, so to speak. By now John thought he knew every single pore on his son's face, knew every tick of muscle and what it meant.

It didn't feel all bad, did feel kinda nice, actually, to just let things move on their own accord for a while…but John knew that the lack of _movement_, of _purpose_ drove Dean stir crazy by now. It sure did that to John.

"_You're still here…"_

The words still reverberated in a nonstop loop around John's head, try as he might to tune them out, shut them out for good.

The first words his son had spoken to him after waking up after three days of feverish delirium in which he'd rasped his brother's name more often than he'd asked for the dog to stop chewing on him, more times than he'd begged his dad to come get him, even.

The first conscious words coming out of his mouth and they'd hit John like a sledgehammer.

"_You're still here." _

"_Where else would I be?"_

Dean hadn't had an answer to that, but it hadn't been so much out of actually not knowing where else John would be, but rather because there were too many places, really, to mention them all, too many times in the past that had proven that he could be anywhere but at his son's side when he needed him.

The silence had weighed heavily on them both, because they'd both known the implication of the lack of an answer.

John forced the though from his mind once again, loading another armful of chopped wood into the rusty wheelbarrow, still skeptical if the old thing would be able to transport the considerable amount of weight already stacked in its tinny body. The barrow groaned and creaked under the load but remained standing.

For a moment John was struck by the resemblance to his own son – creaking and groaning under the weight that was put on his shoulders yet still holding on, still taking more and more an more. And John couldn't help but wonder how long his son would be able to remain standing still…

But he wasn't going to go there – was going to concentrate on the topic at hand. The wheelbarrow. It still stood strong – which was good, because John wouldn't know how to fix it if it actually did break down on him.

Which, again, might relate to his eldest…

He stopped for a moment, wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead, taking a minute to even out his breathing. He looked back towards the house, couldn't keep the worry that had gradually been building in his mind to leave him completely.

For the umpteenth time John reminded himself that Dean was far from alright still, had miles and miles to go, as a matter of fact.

John just didn't know if they had that much time to spare, not right now – not now that he'd finally gotten what looked to be a solid lead on The Demon.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the unpleasant thoughts. He wanted to be with his son, wanted to stay with him all the way through, be the father that he hadn't been most of his life. He _did_ want that. And at the same time he wanted, so badly to set out and end this…

John perked up as he thought he heard a sound coming from the house, thought he heard something falling to the floor.

The sound was faint, and still it had John quickening his step, leaving the wheelbarrow next to the nicely stacked pile of wood, deciding to finish up later. He needed to make sure Dean didn't tumble himself down the stairs or something. He still wasn't very steady on his feet, the crutches more hindering than helpful. Dean never had been dealing too well with limitations… It had been…what…three weeks now? It would be another two weeks at least until they could look up a local clinic, get him fixed up with a walking cast that at least would make things marginally easier…

That leg sure had looked dreadful, had looked really, really bad. And this long and tedious recovery time only served to prove to John time and time again how close they'd gotten.

Another two weeks of not being able to move…

John rounded the house, deciding to get in through the kitchen door instead of the front-door facing the street. The street was pretty secluded, and hardly any car passed by, but still John was careful to not be seen. There was the occasional couple strolling along the road, walking their dog in the bordering forest, and while it hadn't happened yet, John knew that people tended to get curious about strangers in their neighborhood. Small towns were the same no matter where. One of these days, someone would come knocking at their door, pretending to be a friendly neighbor wanting to welcome the newcomers to town. Considering the way Dean looked right now, every day they could put the confrontation off was a good day.

But he definitely needed to go out and grab some groceries tomorrow at the latest, John contemplated while making his way up the back porch. They were running on empty already. Dean's fever had made it impossible for John to go out and get them settled properly. So far they'd been living off the provisions being left behind by someone using the house as temporary shelter.

Another crash sounded from inside the house, way louder this time, instilling an imminent sense of urgency into John. This wasn't just a glass slipping out of his son's grasp. For a second, John's stopped dead in his tracks, hand immediately reaching for the gun he always carried in the waistband of his jeans – always prepared for every eventuality. What if there was something in the house with his son…?

But what he heard next had John jumping into action quickly, abandoning all caution as he followed his son's desperate cry of terror.

OoOoOoO

John burst into the house just in time to see his son basically stumble out of the den.

He was in his boxers and a t-shirt only, big splotches of sweat staining the light grey fabric dark underneath his armpits and in a triangular shape from the collar down.

His face looked almost crazed, desperate, eyes wide open and roaming the room wildly, not yet realizing his father's presence.

He was on his feet – his one foot at least, both hands clamped in a white knuckled grip around the handles of his crutches, yet his balance seemed to be precarious at best, his body leaning too far forward, still yet unaccustomed to the way his body felt, acted – reacted. Dean was so used to knowing even the tiniest way his body obeyed to his every command, this now had to be tough to learn to deal with.

John let his eyes sweep the room for a second, weapon ready yet lowered still, trying to make sure that the only enemy in the house was within his son's head, in his dreams.

They'd gone through this before…

Dean was panting, his chest heaving, and while his face was scrunched up in pain and confusion, he looked very much alert, very much awake. It wasn't like the other times when Dean had been completely out of it, completely lost inside his head still…

"Dad…" he said almost breathlessly, still unaware of his father's presence.

Dean swiveled around, crutches squealing on the cheap plastic floor.

He caught sight of John the second that John offered a quiet:

"Right here, Dean…"

Movement stopped for a second, even Dean's breathing apparently ceasing as his eyes bore into John's, then desperately started to roam his body, looking for something, checking him over.

"You are…where…you weren't here… I woke up and… I found you…"

He was rambling, trying to express feelings he wasn't sure he had the right to unleash, most likely, yet needing to express them so desperately, John could taste the _need_ like an actual experience on his tongue.

"You need to calm down, Dean. It's alright. I'm here…"

John lowered the gun, snapping the safety back on before pushing it back into the waistband of his jeans, taking three long strides forward and catching his son as he was leaning forward, almost loosing his precarious grip on the walking aids. John quickly grabbed Dean by the shoulders, pushing him back upright, steadying him just long enough till he was sure that he wouldn't fall over.

"I was right here, Dean. Just out back, chopping some wood. What happened…was it a dream again?"

John was surprised by his own calmness, surprised that he managed to ask the question that had been burning on his lips ever since the first time his son had woken up kicking and seething, fighting off an attacker only he could see – that wasn't real – not anymore.

They usually didn't…talk about stuff like this. It was an unspoken rule, really. A manly rule. They helped each other out of dire situations, carried the other through the most humiliating and degrading procedures know to man, but they didn't address those topics, ever, out loud. Sam had been the expert on talking things out – or talking them to death, as both Dean and John had called it. But emotional trauma…it just wasn't anything the two older Winchesters dealt with very well…

Tiny tremors of exhaustion and god knew what else chased themselves through Dean's body, pupils dilated widely as if he was still halfway caught in whatever nightmare had taken possession of him this time. John's heart gave a painful squeeze inside his chest, aching for his son so fiercely… It wasn't right that Dean should still suffer like this, not after everything he'd gone through, weeks after the incident still – not only physically but emotionally as well.

"Come on, let's get you sitting down." John finally offered and was surprised at how little resistance he got when he took one of the crutches out of Dean's hand, lifting the arm over his shoulder and moving them both over to the kitchen.

Once they reached the old wooden kitchen table, John pulled out a chair with his foot, carefully letting Dean slide down onto it, waiting a second for him to settle down before pulling another chair over, then lifting Dean's cast-encased leg to gently place it on top of that one.

Dean was still seething, struggling to even out his breathing, to get a grip on himself. His eyes, albeit hooded by heavy and puffed up lids never left John, following his every movement, seizing him up as if he needed to remain the contact in order to not fall into the abyss again.

When John started to move away from the table, to make his way into the kitchen to fetch something to drink Dean twitched as if trying to follow him, leaning forward in his chair and only being held back by a frown crossing his features, his right hand immediately pressing against his abdomen.

"Stay down, Dean." John instructed with gentle gruffness, filling a glass with slightly tepid smelling water from the sink, making another mental note that a supply run was in very imminent order and returning to his son's side.

Dean accepted the water wordlessly, taking long, deep gulps, and John couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking, the veins in his neck popping up against sweat-slicked skin.

Dean had barely set the empty glass back down when he again leaned forward, trying to get closer to John, eyes still frantically checking John over.

This was weird – definitely off. Something had to have happened. Usually, when waking up after one of his nightmares, even though fevered out of his mind Dean would be completely off his mark at first, but managed to settle down fairly quickly once he realized that he wasn't anywhere near that field anymore, that he was as safe as he could be, his father there with him. Usually, he'd withdraw so quickly again, John barely had time to sneak a peek at his son's mind. Whatever the hell was different this time around John didn't know.

But he did know that he needed to find out. They were traipsing around each other long enough as it was. So far, John had given Dean time, thinking that he would help his son get better if he let him tackle this at his own pace.

Maybe he'd been wrong, though.

"You are OK?" Dean asked, and John winced at the painful scraping sound of his son's voice still.

"What…yeah, I'm OK. I was just outside, chopping wood, Dean."

"But you were…I saw …"

He trailed off again, eyes roaming the room as if looking for clues there before going back to John's face.

"I saw you… I saw you and …"

John could feel his brow furrowing in confusion and he leaned over, pulling up the last chair and placing it next to Dean's leg, near enough to be in direct line of view. He needed to talk to Dean eye to eyes on this…

"Dean, what…what did you see? I was right here, just in the backyard."

"NO." John jumped at the sudden fervor in his son's voice.

"No, you don't…you don't understand."

Dean had leaned forward again, trying to get closer to his father, reaching out a hand and grabbing John's leg, holding himself steady so he wouldn't tumble back again.

John leaned forward, covering Dean's hand on his thigh with his own.

"Dean – listen to me. You're not making any sense. You need to calm down and tell me what happened so I can help you figure it out. Just…take a breath…"

Dean did as he was told, surprisingly enough, his fingers gradually relaxing against John's thigh, finally extricating his hand from underneath John's as he let himself slip back into his chair. For the better part of five minutes Dean did nothing but breathe, only the furious tick in his jaw betraying the outwardly relaxed posture.

"You're alright…you're not hurt." Dean finally whispered, as if to himself, a dream-like cadence to his voice.

"Of course I'm not hurt, Dean. I am not the one you have to be worrying about here."

"But the crow…I saw you…and you were…"

"I was what, Dean?" John pressed gently, an unexplainable unease settling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't failed to hear the mention of the bird – again – a painful reminder of that day weeks back that still stuck in John's mind – his son drowning in an ocean of wheat – John fighting his way to him…

Dean's eyes skittered away, roaming aimlessly for a second, looking for a way out.

"I was what, Dean?" John pressed, wincing a little at the hint of impatience he detected in his own voice, immediately biting back on anything else he might have wanted to say.

And then Dean's eyes returned to his father.

If eyes were indeed the windows to a person's soul, John thought he'd be crushed by what he saw in his son's now.

This time, when Dean looked at him again, John thought he would most definitely shy away, the gaze was so intent, the usually intently sparkling orbs of green bottomless pits of unfathomable pain... And then there was a flicker of something, a spark of something so much more frightening than any words Dean could have spoken. Dean shut himself off. It was like a switch being flipped, the curtain falling over Dean's over-expressive eyes, leaving them the same as before, yet at the same time so different it was hard to imagine it was still the same person behind them.

It was worse than anything Dean could have thrown at John that moment, because this…this John knew he had no way of breaking through.

If Dean decided to lock himself up, there was nothing that could persuade him otherwise.

OoOoOoO

There hadn't been one moment the past weeks that Dean had wished that he could just put this all behind him, just lock it all up in that place inside his heart or brain that would never be opened again. A curse box, maybe, like those boxes he'd seen at Bobby's when he'd been a kid. He'd almost received the first beating of his life when he'd decided at the age of eight that opening one of those boxes just had to be fun and couldn't be as dangerous as both his father and Bobby had tried to make him believe numerous times before.

Turned out, he had been wrong then.

Apparently, he'd been wrong a lot of times in his life…

He'd have given anything for one of those damn boxes now, scream all his anger and pain and fear into it, then lock it tight and weigh it down and drop it to the bottom of the deepest trench in the ocean, never to see the light of day again. Lock his heart right inside, too, keep it from tearing apart inside his chest while he was at it.

He'd never been so confused in his entire life. Not when he'd seen his first werewolf, hunted his first swamp-ghoul, seen his first dead body. Not even when he'd been left alone in another strange apartment, his little brother huddled next to him under the blankets, waiting for days on end for his dad to come home – fearing that this would finally be the time that he wouldn't come back for good. Back then, at least he'd had Sammy…

So, damn curse box, that's what he needed. And he wouldn't ever make the mistake of opening it – ever again.

It had been a foolish thing to do – a kid's mistake, and he'd learned his fucking lesson.

Some things best stayed locked and buried for good – that mantra had actually come in handy on quite a number of occasions in Dean's life so far.

And the boxes had taught Dean something, too. Had provided him with a ways of dealing with all the shit he'd come to deal with all his life, the things he'd seen and done… Not a real box – but a proverbial one, one _inside_ of him, one that he'd kept under lock and key ever since building it.

He certainly wasn't a naïve 8-year-old anymore…wanted the damn box closed good and thorough – only he didn't seem to be able to close the damn lid firmly enough to keep it from opening time and time again, it seemed.

Dean had to fight hard, battle everything – battle himself even, to figure out, right now, what to do. To figure out if telling his father would be the right thing to do… But then, it didn't take all that much after all, once he remembered how freaking great the truth had turned out for him so far.

Telling Sam he could be everything he wanted, that he had the chance of living his own life one day.

Telling his father that he didn't agree with a decision he'd made while hunting the black dog, telling him where to stick his rules and instructions.

Two of those very rare times when Dean had figured that he had any right to speak his mind, to not keep his feelings to himself - and hadn't they turned out just great...

"I was what, Dean?" John asked, enough force behind his voice to make Dean answer back to him without really contemplating what he was about to unleash, if he let this monster free. Little did dad know that the monster was already locked firmly away, the lid closed as tightly as it would under the circumstances.

_You were dead._

It would have been as simple as that. But it wouldn't have served any purpose whatsoever. Not until he was sure what it was he was dealing with here.

Not until he was sure that it wasn't just nothing but his brain finally giving out on him…

"Nothing. Nothing." He said instead, felt his breath calm, his pulse slow.

"Nothing…it was nothing. Just a damn dream."

And that was that.

You could have heard a pin drop following his statement, and Dean just kept staring ahead into the deep brown of his father's eyes because despite wanting to deny what he'd seen in his dream he was afraid that, if he looked away now, his dad would disappear on him again, that he would be thrown back into the nightmare – only to this time find out that it was indeed real, that the assumed nightmare was the gruesome reality in fact.

John didn't move, but Dean thought he saw something shift in his eyes. He wasn't sure how to read it, but there was definitely something there…

John leaned forward a little, a hand sneaking out for Dean's shoulder but Dean shied away from the touch, suddenly not wanting to be comforted, not wanting to be calmed. He wanted to be heard, and at the same time he wanted nothing more than to be able to keep quiet. If he'd let his dad touch him now, Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it together. So he retreated, dodging his father's hand.

How could he possibly make his father see, make him understand if he himself had no idea what it all meant?

Not that it was a secret, not that Dean didn't know that John was well aware of his son's nightmares, the terrors jolting him awake, holding him in a tight embrace even when being awake sometimes. All those images Dean couldn't get out of his head… So, John knew, of course, but so far they hadn't talked about it – wouldn't ever talk about it, if it was up to Dean.

"Dean, we need to talk about this…" John stated – too calmly, too matter-of-factly. Dean knew that tone of voice. Hated it.

Dean clamped his jaw shut, fighting the urge to get up and get the hell out of here. Which, clearly, he wouldn't be capable of. Damn leg…

"Dean…this is serious. I know…I know what you've been though has been terrible…"

Dean couldn't help the snort escaping from closed lips, secretly glad it didn't come out too sarcastically, even though…yeah…like hell did dad know. Like hell did he know what had led to this whole mess in the first place, had led to Dean abandoning all caution and barge ahead without thinking. And – god, did his dad have _not a fucking clue_ as to what he'd been through…

"I know it's been terrible, Dean, and I certainly know only half of it. But what I've seen…"

"This is not what this is about. It had nothing to do with me screwing this up." Dean said, self-loathing tasting bitter in his mouth, sticking stubbornly to his palate.

"Dean…"

There – not denying the fact that Dean had messed up. His tone of voice expressing exhausted defeat, but not pampering him anymore. Not that he didn't deserve it…

"We need to face this…both of us. We need to talk about whatever is bothering you. I want you to stop pretending that you're fine and tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

"There's nothing wrong with me." Dean spat, anger slowly boiling deep in his stomach again, anger at his dad – but mostly at himself.

He should be stronger that this…should be able to beat this. He wasn't a goddamn PTSD patient or something. He'd seen things way worse than this…_way_ worse than this. And the dream probably meant nothing at all, just another sick way of life turning around on him, never making things easy…

"You waking up every single night, reeling from some dream you got kinda tells a different story, Dean."

"I told you, it's nothing. Nothing I can't deal with."

Dean realized his heart was thundering again, that feeling of dread he'd woken up to boiling its way up his esophagus once more, and he had to swallow hard to keep himself in check.

It had just been a dream, right? Just a dream.

"Maybe this time you can't, Dean. Maybe this time you can't just deal with this yourself, pretend it didn't happen. And you don't have to…you don't…"

For a moment, the room fell silent again, the only sound in the room coming from the small radio-clock on the nightstand, ticking away the seconds, a faint underlying symphony of crickets singing their song out back.

"Tell me what happened, Dean. With the black dog. " John said quietly, but his voice sounded like a gunshot in the stillness of the house.

"I can't."

John's chin dropped a little, his head turning away from Dean, scanning the cramped living room, clearly working up the courage to press Dean on this, debating on whether or not Dean was past the point of needing to be handled with kid's gloves already. Like any harsh word could break him even further…

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, felt dry flakes of skin brushing against each other, peeling off and leaving raw, open flesh behind.

"There's nothing bothering me." He finally said forcing his eyes away from his father's face, fighting to get himself locked up and under control again before anything could spill out in the open.

"Dean…for god's sake…"

"Like I said. There's nothing to it. Just a damn dream. I'll be alright…like always."

This time, when Dean returned his gaze to meet his father's, he knew from the flinch that met him, the blink of John's eyes, that his walls were up and back in place again – at least for the moment.

The look of pained defeat on John's face was crushing, felt almost as crushing at the weight that came bearing down on Dean's own chest as he spoke the words that were clearly out of line – and so clearly a lie that was bold, to say the least, even for Dean's rep-sheet. But Dean had learned stubborn denial from one of the best…two of the best, maybe. And he wasn't going to back down now.

John nodded, leaned back, bringing some distance between them again. Surprisingly enough, it didn't bring Dean the suspected ease, though, didn't give him the breathing space he'd been hoping for. Instead, it only seemed to deepen the void, seemed to tighten the vice around his heart even farther.

He was unreasonable about this, Dean knew it. He was doing the same damn thing he'd always accused his dad of doing…he was pushing John back when he needed him the most – needed him so obviously, a blind man could have seen it easily enough.

Dean knew he was the one making the mistake here…

But the truth was, he didn't know what was wrong with him. Not really. There was something about this… Something he needed time to figure out, but he wasn't sure how to handle it just yet.

He saw a flash of black whipping before his eyes, saw the rolling sway of golden wheat and gleaming black feathers brushing against the coarse tips of rustling stalks. He saw a woman's soft brown eyes turn into something feral and very much in-humane and smelled the overpowering stench of half-dried blood in his nostrils. He felt blinding pain in his leg and even more blinding agony in his shoulder and saw his dad lying on the ground, eyes open yet sightless, the clear imprint of canine teeth in the pale skin of his throat, his jugular torn, his life bled out into the earth underneath him.

Dean saw death.

And he wasn't sure why he saw it, nor what it meant, but he was absolutely, undoubtedly sure that whatever it was that he was seeing, it meant something.

Now he just had to find out what the hell that something was.

And then he had to go out and find a way to stop it from happening.

OoOoOoO

The kitchen table was old and wooden, pieces chipped off and deep grooves running all over the lacquer-free top, marking the trail of plates being pushed over it, of pen's pushing through too thin paper, the pattern sometimes broken by black splotches where candles had charred the ancient wood.

Dean knew some of the scars, remembered burning that particular dark circular form into the table himself when pressing the still smoking muzzle of a gun into the wood, showing his little brother how easily he could get hurt if he picked up a gun when it was still hot. He remembered the edge of the table had broken off when the old sideboard had collapsed one day when Sam had to climb up on its side, almost burying his little brother underneath it. He also remembered the crudely drawn elephant Sam had carved into the table's leg, complete with a trunk and two oversized tusks, insisting that it was a mammoth, even though he hadn't been able to carve the shaggy fur Dean had pointed out mammoths most definitely would have sported.

He remembered the line of a black felt pen marker that marred another corner, remembering Sam drawing him the most hilarious picture of some weird-ass cartoon character and slipping off the paper in his 5-year-old enthusiasm.

Dean remembered all those things, but what he somehow didn't remember, weirdly enough, was the carved letters close to the top right corner of the table.

He didn't remember Sam having done those, couldn't recall ever even having seen them before. He'd always been close to his brother, always had had him in his sight. Surely, there was no way Sam would have been able to carve something like this into the table without Dean noticing, if not right away then at least later, when once again setting the table, serving mac and cheese or spaghettis, waiting for their dad to return.

But he didn't remember.

And he didn't know why it would bother him so much, reading those words now, of all times.

But it did.

OoOoOoO

"Sam + Dean W."

The words were done in a crude, childish, lines etched deep into the wood as if to make sure that they'd withstand time and wear, that they'd be there for following generations to read.

Dean stared at them for a long time, unable to draw his eyes away for some reason, fingertips tracing the grooves in the wood almost compulsively, like a blind man, needing to feel the words to make them real.

He felt his eyes tear up – he had to have caught a cold or something - blinking rapidly to clear them again, suddenly almost jumping out of his skin hen a rough voice ripped him out of his thoughts.

"Dean."

Just one word…his own name, and still it had Dean sucking in a breath, he was so unprepared to hear it from the voice on the other end of the line, even though he himself had dialed the number, held the phone in his hand, the receiver pressed to his ear. And yet, somehow, Dean hadn't been prepared…

It took him a second to composed himself, to place the slightly breathless voice suddenly booming through his head.

"Hey…" he pretended to cough, to clear his suspiciously raw voice and strengthen his speech.

This was ridiculous, after all. Just a regular call – a friendly conversation, nothing more…right? This was his brother, the kid whose diapers he'd changed, who Dean knew better than he knew himself – and vice versa.

Dean dragged his eyes away from the words carved into the table, forced his hunched up shoulders to loosen up, his suddenly wildly beating heart to settle back down.

This shouldn't feel so strange, shouldn't feel so damn right, either.

God, he'd missed hearing Sam's voice. How pathetic was that?

"So, how you're doing, little brother? Life treating you well? Hope you keep your grades up, don't disgrace our family's reputation…"

It was harder than he'd thought, keeping up the light and carefree tone of voice, keeping up the appearance of what Sam would recognize as his old, normal self. Even though he felt so far from normal, it was tragic, really.

Sam didn't answer right away and for a second Dean was afraid that the connection had broken, that he'd lost his little brother again, but then Sam's voice once again broke the heavy silence, sounding a little rushed, slightly out of breath.

"Well, I'm still holding my scholarship, so…don't think I'm putting you to shame..."

Dean nodded, feeling an oddly proud feeling rising warm inside his chest. He'd never doubted his brother could do this, could keep up his grades and excel at what he was doing. Never. Still felt damn good to hear it.

"That's good to hear. Good to hear. Wouldn't want the neighbors pointing their fingers our way, you know."

Sam snorted at that, a noise that made Dean smile involuntarily. He forced himself to relax even further into his chair, leaning forward onto his elbows and staring intently at the old issues of local newspapers he'd haphazardly spread all over the wooden tabletop.

This shouldn't feel so damn awkward…

"So, how are you doing? Everything alright?" Sam asked, the first top break the silence that had settled between them.

"Well, you know how it is. Always busy…seems like we never run out of something to hunt."

"But you are OK?" Sam inquired, the tone of his voice making Dean frown in both affection and irritation.

His brother was worried about him, which was…nice…good to know, but on the other hand it wasn't like Sam had been the most reliable when it had come to picking up his own damn phone.

"Yeah, well, as I said. Real busy…"

He unconsciously sat up straighter, his side immediately twitching in protest as he didn't favor it the way he usually did, his hand immediately sneaking down to cover still tender flesh as he levered his body more to the other side, taking some strain off the wounds.

"So, uhm…is dad there with you?" Sam suddenly asked, and Dean couldn't help but cringe at the obvious hesitancy in Sam's voice, as if he was afraid to talk with his father anywhere within earshot. That certainly wasn't right either.

"He went out to do some errands. Ran out of clean clothes…have to get the fridge filled – that kind if stuff."

Sam chuckled, maybe a little bitterly.

"Dad's doing the errands? What happened – he lose a bet or something?"

"Well, seems like he's only half as good at playing poker than he thinks."

"Yeah…"

Dean ran a hand through his hair, fingers unconsciously rubbing at the healing gash on his forehead. He'd persuaded John to remove the stitches that would have had to come out within the next couple of days anyways. It had healed nicely, but the fresh red scar still itched like crazy and with nobody there to scold him for picking at it…

"So, what's up? You just call to say hi?"

Sam sounded a little distracted, as if his mind was on something else.

"If this is a bad time, I can call back later…" Dean offered, barely able to contain the disappointment that weighed heavily on his heart.

He hadn't heard Sam in such a long time…but he wasn't going to appear needy here.

"No, no it's not. Just…hold on a second, alright? I've just come home, gotta shuck my jacket and I'll be right with you."

Before Dean could say another word he heard the phone being put away, heard the rustling of clothes and the banging noise of some books hitting a table. For a second Dean was lost in memory, remembering Sam coming home from school sometime during his last year in high-school, most likely, all out of breath and mind on some paper he had to be writing, books he had to read. He'd been…distracted, that last year more so than ever, hardly ever really present anymore.

It only occurred to Dean now, that he'd started missing his little brother long before he'd actually left them for good.

And he hadn't missed Sam's use of the word _home_ just now.

"Alright, so…I'm all yours."

Sam sighed and Dean imagined him slumping into a sofa or stuffed chair, long legs propped up on a coffee table, trying to shed the day's tension.

_All yours_.

Well, hardly.

"Uhm, reason I'm calling…I was wondering if you could help me with something. I'm researching a hunt - kinda need to tap into your ginormous database of useless knowledge you've managed to assemble over the years. Figured, it's about time all that smartness is good for _something…_"

Dean decided not to _hear_ the frown at his statement, not to _see_ the unhappy scrunching up of Sam's face that he was able to imagine clear as day in front of his inner eye. Before Sam could say anything, Dean barged on ahead, choking off whatever objection Sam might have been forming on his lips.

"I know you're done with hunting, Sam. I just need a little input, is all. I just didn't know who else to ask."

Sam was squirming, Dean could feel it, was probably biting his lip, that deep groove in between his brows, that suffering look in his eyes. Dean had such a vivid picture of his brother, it practically hurt him physically when he once again realized that Sam wasn't sitting right there, in the same room with him but was in fact miles and miles and a couple of states away from him.

"Alright, sure. No problem…"

"Just hear me out, OK? It's nothing big – nothing that could get you into trouble, I promise. If you don't like it, you can always hang up on me again."

This time, the silence on the other end of the line was way shorter, Sam's voice calmer, inquiring.

"I'm not going to hang up on you." He offered quietly.

"Alright, then. All the better. You got your thinkers-cap on?" Dean forced his voice to appear light and relaxed again, hoping that Sam wouldn't pick up on how important this was for him.

Because it was.

Just a little bit.

"Shoot." Sam offered, and Dean grabbed an old newspaper and a pen, preparing himself even though he knew he'd probably end up making only a few, sketchy notes before giving up on trying to write things down. He'd always been better at admitting things to memory, never had been the one to file it all away in writing, like dad and Sam seemed to need to.

For a second, Dean was distracted by a grainy black and white picture staring up at him from the front page of the small local paper, the pic was a wide shot and slightly out of focus, the headline above announcing a local woman named Tanya Ruger opening a herb-shop in town. Something about the picture stirred something, prodding him to remember. Momentarily, a trail of goose bumps raises along the valley of Dean's spine, but it was gone again as quickly as it had appeared. Dean ran a hand over his face quickly. Must have been the name – Ruger – just like the rifle or the gun. Yeah, had to be it.

Dean didn't give himself time to probe his brain any further, didn't allow himself to pay any closer attention to the article at all.

Now he had more important things to worry about.

Dean drew a deep breath, turning the page to an advertisement he could scribble over.

"OK, so…what do you know about crows?"

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_So, told you I'd bring Sam back. mayb it wasn't entirely what most of you had been hoping for - but, you know, if you kept reading...who knows what will happen... ;-)_

_Anyways, I owe you all a big, big thank you for your support and for forgiving me my long leave of absence and extra tnanks to all those who honored me with their reviews. By now I need not tell you how much this means to me anymore!_

_I hope you'll come back again next week._

_Thanks for your time and take care!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Thank you all so, so much for reading - more than 300 reviews - I can't believe it (but I'm certainly not complaining!) You guy rock, seriously!_

_Hope you enjoy this chapter, too_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 14**

"What do I know about crows?" Sam asked, voice incredulous.

Dean dropped his head into his hands, pressing his knuckles to the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, crows. Them big, black birds. Edgar Allen Poe wrote a poem about one…"

Dean tried to keep his voice light, feeling incredibly safer treading on familiar territory with his little brother, the teasing and bantering like a step back in time, almost.

"Edgar Allen Poe…that's pretty dark stuff. Didn't know you'd ever read his work. 'sides, the poem's actually called 'the raven'."

"Crow – Raven. Same difference. And, I do read, you know. On occasion…if it can't be avoided. Besides, Poe was one of the first writers of mystery, right? So, it really is work-related - research, almost…"

Sam grumbled something under his breath, something along the lines of _didn't know they've made a movie out of that one_, but kept quiet otherwise. It made Dean smile a little. He still was able to surprise his little brother, after all these years...

"You want a biology lesson on birds in general, or have you got anything in particular in mind?" Sam finally asked.

Dean pulled the newspaper closer, started drawing doodles along the paper's edges.

"Uhm…yeah. I was thinking more in terms of…mythology. Like what kind of lore surrounds them – that kind of thing."

"Any particular incident I should know about?" Sam asked, altogether too calm, too composed…too suspicious and Dean knew he was dangerously close to being busted. If he wasn't already. Sam knew it had something to do with him, sure, because Sam always knew when Dean was trying to con him or dad.

"I got wind of this case…a friend of a friend… Long story, but…I remember you doing that paper on mythology of crows and ravens, once, remember? You were around 16 – had me drive you all the way across the country so you could talk to that native American…shaman or whatever the hell he was. Dad got so pissed 'cause he came back home Saturday morning and we were gone… Anyways – you did that paper and you got an A on it, if I remember correctly, so I thought maybe you could refresh my memory a little…"

Dean shifted on the hard chair, biting down on his bottom lip as a dull shiver ran up his leg, reminding him painfully that it would be time for his meds again soon. But first things first…

"So you're not going to tell me the whole story?" Sam asked, tone of his voice clearly suggesting that he didn't believe the friend of a friend of a friend scheme Dean had so smartly come up with.

"As I said – long story."

"And it has nothing at all to do with you or dad…?"

"Nope - nothing whatsoever. Just a friend…"

"…of a friend, yeah. I got that."

"Right."

Sam waited a beat, no doubt deciding if and how to call his bluff, giving Dean the tiny window to turn himself in, but after a couple of seconds of silence Dean relaxed again, sensing that the immediate threat was over.

"Alright…so…it's been a while, but I think I still got some of it memorized…"

Dean heard Sam shift again, imagined how he sat up, leaning forward, his back slightly hunched but face set, all business. His thinker's mode – formerly known as research-mode. It was engraved like a picture in Dean's mind.

"In modern legends and myths crows or ravens are depicted as some kind of…harbingers of doom, or death. Most people see them as dark and dangerous…mystical creatures. That's because of their dark coloring, of course – black animals are used to represent the devil, or evil in general in old and modern literature as well as movies, too. Black horses for the villain in western movies - or, take black cats, for example – those are supposed to bring bad luck…"

Yeah – or, say…black dogs. _Totally unfounded belief. _Because they really were just poor, cuddly, misunderstood little puppies that just happened to like to chew on human legs for a snack… Live and let live…

"Also, crows are carrion eaters, so in times of war they were often seen circling above battlefields, waiting to feast on the dead – or, more recently, they flock at graveyards, or near slaughterhouses, waiting to pick on the remains."

_Carrion eaters – picking at eyes…_

A cold shiver ran up Dean's spine. But the crow had never threatened him...had it?

"I remember something about their calls…some resemblance to words…" Dean offered, just to say something, to contribute and not make Sam feel like he was doing an actual lecture. Because Dean did remember some of those things, but he'd always done so much better when being able to discuss things with someone, preferably his brother. He'd always been one that needed to talk things through in order to be able to grasp them in their entirety.

"Yeah…what was that again... I think the crowing was attributed to the Latin word for _Tomorrow._ So, if they are calling _cra cra_ it supposedly sounds like _cras cras_ – cras being the Latin word for tomorrow, which the superstitious of course, once again due to the usual crowding of the animals at battlefields or graveyards saw as an omen of death."

Dean's fingers involuntarily flexed around the pen in his hand, almost snapping it in two.

"So, they're…portents - omens of death?" he asked, trying to sound casual despite the rough edge that had crept into his voice.

"Well…that's only the myth, of course. Mainly, they are seen as creepy, uncanny animals. But, there are plenty of myths depicting crows as good omens, too. In some Native American tribes they are believed to be very holy, very wise birds – are called upon by shamans to clarify visions that a human alone cannot interpret. They believe them to be spiritual guides who issue warnings to the living, who can assist in determining answers to hidden thoughts. They can see beyond what is visible to the human eye, see the past, the presence and the future."

Sam was in full-on lecture mode now, getting into the subject, logging into geek-mode as effortlessly as other's went to sleep. The tone of his voice changed, when he did that, the cadence, too. There was a familiar beat to his talking now, a rhythm that Dean easily fell into, almost losing himself in it.

Dean ran a hand over his face, down his chin, trying to take it all in.

"So, what you are saying is, that they are _seers_ or prophets, kind of, like psychics?"

"I wouldn't say psychic…but visionary, maybe. Like…spirit animals, you know? They see things that are already there, but we can't make out, somehow. Like, danger that is about to be upon us, is already in the making, so to speak but hasn't happened yet."

"Like, supernatural guardian angels?"

"You could put it that way."

Dean was quiet for a second, his mind wandering, trying to make sense of it all. OK, so the bird had seen the impending doom that had been about to struck Dean back in that field, when he'd been mauled half to death by the black dog. Which wasn't all that visionary, really, wouldn't have been too hard to figure out considering how he'd been pretty much bleeding out and all…

But it _had_ kept him awake and alert, had kept him from wandering off, thus making it impossible for his dad to find him. Granting, of course, that it hadn't all been feverish delusions. And there was no way of proving that to be the truth. Besides the dreams, of course, but those, again, could be nothing but dreams…

Dean had never really believed in gut-feeling, had clung to the set rules and regulations that came with being John Winchesters son. Sam had always been the emotional one, the one hunting with his heart instead of his hands, as dad had so accurately put it once.

So, where did this goddamn gut-feeling that felt more like a full blown ulcer by now, coming from all of a sudden?

_Dad, dead…lying in a pool of blood…_

"Do you believe it? You believe they are messengers of the future instead of doom?" Dean asked quickly, banning the unwelcome pictures from his mind while absentmindedly drawing the rough outlines of a bird remotely resembling a crow on his sheet of paper, pen etching circle after circle around the animal's eye.

Sometime during the conversation he'd unconsciously turned the newspaper back over again, the image of the crow drawn right next to the picture of the herb-lady.

"Well…"

Sam's voice was momentarily rippled by static, and Dean tensed, fearing he would lose his brother, but a second later he was there again, loud and strong…as if he'd never left.

"Well, I guess I do. They are fascinating animals, smart and intelligent. I think that there's more to them than people ever give them credit for. They are judged too harshly by their looks, their history…"

Yeah – only that every superstition, every lore had an origin somewhere – and more often than not there was a shred of truth at least to every seemingly unfounded suspicion. In their line of work they'd come to realize that often enough. But Sam had always believed in the good – first and foremost – in both people and everything supernatural. It was a sentiment that Dean had cherished more than he'd ever been able to express, ever been allowed to express. Someone in their little family had to be the one keeping them all grounded…

"But…if that's all true – the good guardian stuff, I mean…what would make them share that information…what makes them…offer their _sight_ or whatever the hell you wanna call it, to a human? Alright, if I'm a shaman and ask it for its help, I guess they'll get offerings and such…but…would it offer its knowledge voluntarily? Free of charge? And how does it pick whoever it decides to share its wisdom with?"

"I wouldn't know. Native Americans go on those vision quest…search for their spirit animal to guide and protect them. I'd say…maybe they just pick someone, choose a human to latch onto, someone in need, maybe, someone who'd be lost without them."

Like hell would Dean have been lost without the damn bird. He'd have found a way…

"Listen, Dean, I'm not really all that familiar with the subject anymore, if you need more than that I'd have to look it up again… All I know is that they are said to be messengers of change, of transformation. They guide people that are lost, help them find their way, trying to steer them away from danger and back onto the right path. I have no clue as to their motive. I'm not sure there is one, even. There doesn't always have to be a reason…"

Dean didn't know what to say to that.

He certainly hadn't been _lost_, just a little disoriented, off the track, maybe, but merely steps away from the laid path. Maybe he still was, but it wasn't something to get worried about. So why the hell would the bird chose him, of all people?

"I'm no expert, though, Dean, so if you need anything else…maybe you should talk to someone else. Try Bobby, maybe. I'm sure he has about a dozen books on the subject, could fill in the blank spots."

Dean shook his head, remembering too late that Sam wouldn't be able to see.

"No…not, it's alright. You already helped a lot. I mean…this might have nothing to do with m… with the case I'm working on, I just wanted to make sure I've got all bases covered."

The beat of a pause…

"You don't think you're dealing with a spirit crow, then?" Sam asked, his voice slightly more suspicious again, now that he'd once again been drawn out of his lecturing mode.

"Nah…that does sound a little too _fictional_, you know? I mean, a bird warning people of death, protecting them…I don't believe in the goodness of the heart, Sam, you know that. Not even in animals. There's got to be a catch, somewhere."

Now that he had all the information he'd been looking for, Dean suddenly felt bone tired again. His body, tensed for the past hour or so at once slacking again, reminding him brutally of his still too apparent weakness. He really needed to end this conversation soon, before he said anything that gave him away…any more than he already had.

"You'd have an easier time believing crows to be the companions of death itself, to track down those who'd die next and make sure that they wouldn't escape their doom, rather than believing they would want to protect and guide a lost soul?" Sam asked, a strange sadness in his voice that had Dean bristle and cringe inside.

Truth was, yeah – he had less trouble believing in the bad than in the good. And who could blame him, having seen what he'd seen, knowing what he knew…

Dean just wasn't ready for this.

He wasn't ready to admit to the fact that the whole hunt gone wrong had shaken him, had shaken a lot of things he'd thought he believed in. And he certainly wasn't ready to admit that a damn crow had saved his ass, maybe, was now trying to warn him to another catastrophe about to be upon him - them. If it was indeed true.

He wasn't ready to admit that a crow should be his spirit animal. If there was such a thing as spirit animals, his would be a bear, or a wolf, even, or a panther or leopard or something similarly fierce and dangerous. Something big and impressive and frightening. Certainly not a bird. A pretty damn cool bird, all black and mystical and smart, maybe – but a bird nonetheless.

And, if it had to be a bird, it would be an eagle, to be sure, not a damn crow.

_Not a crow._

Besides, there was still no proof out on the dream he'd had – so there was nothing to use for strengthening the evidence. He'd have to look into it further, make sure he got it all worked out. He still had time for that.

Dean hadn't called Sam because he believed that there was something to the whole dream-business… only wanted to gather some information, maybe using it a little as an excuse to simply talk to his brother again. Didn't mean he gave a rat's ass about anything he'd just found out.

Nothing to get excited about.

Just covering all bases, like dad had taught him.

Dean realized that neither of them had said anything in a while. Suddenly, the silence between them was heavy again, the tension once again palpable. It hadn't been like that between them, ever before. Not even during those last months, when Sam had been so hard to reach already, his mind no longer with his family.

"Dean, you'd tell me if you were in trouble, right?" Sam suddenly asked, carefully, worry tinging his voice.

Dean shook himself, trying to pull up at least part of that wall again – the wall that had been knocked down and had been left rotting on the ground for far too long now.

"There's nothing to worry about, Sam. I'm fine – we're fine. Always will be."

He was surprised himself at the hardened determination he detected in his own voice again. Sam heard it too, no doubt – and the kid, at least, had learned when he'd been beaten at his own game of stubbornness. The sigh sounding over the line was barely audible, and somehow it didn't serve to make Dean believe he was the winner in this game, all of a sudden.

"You sound…different." Sam said, stubborn tinge to his voice, like he knew he was overstepping the border, but trying to appear as if he didn't care.

Face to face, Dean would have flashed his little brother a smile, contradicting the obvious lies that were spilling out of his mouth – covering up the all too apparent sight of his injuries screaming out how far from alright he really was – they really were. Face to face, Sam would have scowled and frowned and looked all suffering and teary, chin jutted out and crease in between his brows a mile deep by now.

Face to face…

But they were separated by hundreds of miles – separated by more than just distance by now, maybe.

"Where are you right now? Maybe you could come by, pay me a visit? I've just moved into a new apartment…" Sam said quietly.

The offer took Dean by surprise a little. Which might explain why he did what he did – namely, offering his brother the truth.

"Uhm…you remember that house we used to stay in a couple times when you were little? The one with the tree-house and the swing set and the bunk-beds?"

Sam thought about that for a moment.

"Yeah, I think I actually do remember. It was some kind of safe-house, right? Belonged to some hunter. We stayed there whenever we needed a place to lay low for a while..."

"That's the place."

"What are you doing there?" Sam asked, and this time the suspicion was not even close to being concealed anymore.

"What…?"

"We haven't been there for years."

"Yeah, so what? We ran low on funds, needed a place to stay for a while…"

Dean realized too late that that had been the wrong thing to say.

"Why? What's wrong, Dean?"

Oh Jesus.

"Nothing's wrong, Sam. Just another place to crash for a while, that's all. Just until we found ourselves another hunt to take care of."

"You're lying."

It was said matter-of-factly. Like there was absolutely no doubt in Sam's mind.

"Jesus, Sam. What's wrong with you? We can't crash someplace without you suspecting a conspiracy behind it?"

"Well, maybe you're just as good at lying to me as dad is at playing poker." Sam challenged.

"Just let this go, Sam. I'm telling you, there's nothing wrong. I'm fine…great. I'm just catching on some rest between hunts."

Here they were again, the happiness at hearing his brother's voice, talking to him like before – when they'd still been hunting together, tossing ideas back and forth…all of that shattered because of the damn secrets they were forced to keep from each other… Because Dean didn't want to pull Sam back into his old life…not unless Sam made that decision himself.

He didn't want this to happen because of something that could be held against _him_, Dean, in the long run. He didn't think he'd be able to live with himself if he did. And telling Sam what had happened…it could mean this would happen. Could mean that Sam would pack his things and come, because even though he'd left seemingly without looking back, he'd really always left a bridge open, a way to cross back over in keeping in contact with his older brother.

All bad feelings aside, all thoughts of abandonment considered, Dean _knew_ that, if somehow his life was at stake, Sam would come back. They still were brothers after all.

"Dean, I swear…if I find out you're lying to me… You wouldn't lie to me about this, right? Not if you really were in trouble…right?"

Dean felt himself falter, felt the defenses shaking badly at Sam's question. He wanted so badly to tell him…

Despite everything Sam apparently thought, Dean had never been able to lie to his little brother. He'd just gotten pretty damn good at bending the truth.

Even though it was exceptionally harder to keep up that front now.

"I'm talking to you right now, Sammy, aren't I? How bad could it possibly be if I'm still talking to you?"

His body chose exactly this moment to show Dean how bad it actually was, proving him wrong as another dull throb shot through his leg. Dean jerked to sit up a little straighter, his hand automatically reaching down to clamp hard fingers into the flesh atop his left knee as if he was physically able to keep the pain at bay that way, to keep it from crawling all the way up into his hip, taking over the rest of his body.

More than three weeks now, and still he couldn't go any longer period of time without his meds cushioning the worst of the pain. He tried skipping every other dose now and always started to regret his decision shortly after…

He'd almost forgotten that he'd still had the phone gripped in his hand, flinching when Sam cleared his throat all of a sudden. Dean barely bit back on a groan of discomfort as the jerking of muscles sent small tremors of pain down his shoulder and side, settling in a molten lump in the cut of his hip.

He really had to end this now, get up and moving while he still could, get those meds down before his body locked up on him completely.

"Listen…" they both said at the same time, both falling silent again when they realized the incident.

"You first." Dean said quickly, beating Sam to it by a second only.

It was almost noon already. Dad would be back soon, and Dean really wanted to be off the phone by then…

Sam grumbled something that Dean didn't understand.

"What was that? Didn't hear you." Dean prodded softly, a tiny smile on his lips despite the slowly rising nausea that accompanied his body's withdrawal.

"I said, I have to get going soon."

"Got a date?"

"Why, you jealous?"

"Not really, having seen some of the girls you've managed to pay for going out with you."

"Like hell…" Sam grumbled, and Dean couldn't help the painful smile that accompanied the feeling of familiarity their light banter once again awakened.

"Got classes. Have a couple of tests coming up, a paper to write." Sam finally offered, the explanation sounding like an excuse, almost.

"Yeah, alright." There was nothing more Dean could say to that. Already the loss of contact weighed down on his shoulders heavily, adding to the lump of pain that had settled there.

"So…I guess we'll talk…" Sam offered, and Dean drew some sick comfort in the thought that Sam sounded just as reluctant to hang up as he himself did.

"Sure, sure. I'll give you a call." Dean offered, forcing his mind to blank out once again. He'd never done good with good-byes…

"Yeah. Maybe you might work on not losing your phone again, dude. I can't believe dad didn't rip you a new one for that stunt, man. He's certainly been all over my case whenever I simply left it in another room and didn't get there in time to pick it up… And you might wanna consider checking your messages every once in a while, too. I was beginning to worry something might have happened to you…"

The seemingly unguarded comment had Dean frowning, fighting to stay alert through the low but frighteningly insistent haze of pain creeping up his body, settling like a giant tumor in the back of his head.

"What are you talking about? I never lose my phone, Sam. And you know I check my messages every day."

He pushed himself up from the chair, his good arm braced against the table to keep his body from overbalancing, shuffling to the side until he got a grip on his crutches. It was awkward, clutching the phone between shoulder and ear in order to be able to walk like this. But he really needed to get something to drink, needed to get his meds ready. He'd been holding back for a little too long I order to not give Sam a clue to the fact that he was hurt. Dean knew the meds made him a little woozy…made him careless sometimes. He'd been afraid he'd say something, let something slip that he had no intention of revealing to his little brother.

He'd made it to the counter, precariously balancing his weight on his good leg while filling a glad with tepid smelling tab-water, detecting the telltale tremor in his fingers, the sheen of sweat that covered the back of his hands even.

More than three weeks, goddamnit. How could he be so goddamn weak still…?

He was drawn back to the conversation at the sound of Sam's voice, once again jerking as he'd been apparently drifting off a little.

"What…what did you just say?" Dean asked, his own voice sounding hollow and far away even to his own ears.

"I said, dad told me you'd lost it – your phone - and that he had to go get it for you… I left you half a dozen messages after, but you never got back to me…"

Dean stopped in mid-movement, hand braced against the countertop, brows drawing together in confusion.

"When did… Sam, when did you talk to dad?"

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_This has been an insane week - at least the first part of it - volcanoes in Iceland and all that - which is good for business, apparently, but not so good to grant some spare time. but hey - writing is such a great stress-reliever, gives you the chance to just block out some of the stress of the day and settle back down again. So, thank you all for giving me reason to vent here. It's certainly a healthier way than eating chocolate (which I had every intention of doing, but then conscience warned me... so I baked those brownies for my colleagues only - I'm a very popular person in my office right now, I can tell you ;-)_

_I got to repeat myself and say - again - that I can't believe the responses this story is getting, and I'm doing my best to not dissapoint you guys. Those wonderful reviews and PMs sure feed my muse a lot, and I mean _a lot_. So, I'm off to writing again, before Mount Doom decides to spill it's ashes all over europe again... ;-)_

_thanks so much for reading and don't fear to review - feed my muse some more. you're awesome!_

_take care!_


	15. Chapter 15

_Hi there and thank you all so, so much for popping in again. _

_I gotta post this before I change my mind again, so i'll make this quick._

_Thanks for all the awsome, encouraging and supportive reviews - and to all the people that alerted me or the story or marked it as one of their favorites. You are the best!_

_Here's the next chapter:_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 15**

The phone lay on the little table next to the sofa, its dark display staring up at Dean provokingly. Laughing at him, almost, challenging him to face the confusing revelations he'd just been confronted with.

Just a little while ago it had carried his little brother back into his life, had given Dean back a piece of himself, a piece so vital he couldn't understand how he'd ever done without it.

But now Sam was gone again, the 30 minutes or so that they'd been brothers again over so quickly, Dean almost wondered if he had imagined it all. But no, it had been real, that much was painfully obvious from the feeling ob loss that coursed through Dean in time with his heartbeat, a trench of loneliness that had been ripped open yet again, after being barely healed over the course of the past 2 years, give or take.

Dean stopped the incessant pacing he'd kept up through the course of the past hour, ever since hanging up the phone, once again being reminded of his still struggling body, the weakness that he couldn't seem to be able to get under control. His arms were shaking from carrying his own weight, his chest impossibly tight, even though Dean doubted that that one was due to the injuries there – at least not solely so.

This…this was something different altogether. This was Dean Winchester, not knowing what to do.

The meds he'd taken right after hanging up with Sam took forever to kick in and Dean was almost inclined to believe that he didn't _let_ them to do their work, his agitated state of mind preventing his body to find the reprieve it so clearly craved.

As if he couldn't allow himself to relax, to settle down.

As if he was unconsciously punishing himself…

He was mad – at himself, for not being able to push his personal feelings aside, like he'd been so good at in the past. Shutting out or locking in everything that wasn't directly related to the hunt – or the possibly supernatural aspect of his dream.

The emphasis being on _possibly_. Sure, it all fit…and still Dean had no proof. The only problem was, he really wasn't sure that he could wait until he had his goddamn proof…

But instead of getting a grip up and figuring out what to do with the situation at hand, Dean found himself rendered unable to think about anything else but the most blatant, the most hurtful betrayal he thought he'd ever come across.

Talking to Sam had vitalized him, had given him reason again. But the sucker punch at the end…it was stupid, he knew that, shouldn't let himself get distracted like this…

So – dad had talked to Sam. It was his damn right, after all, and it had been about time the two of them had talked again. Even though it had ended up a mess, even though Sam had thankfully not been aware of it. Dean would be damned if he told his little brother that John had not been honest with his youngest, even though Sam probably strongly suspected it. But Dean had had his father's back, like always. Damn vicious circle, them lying to each other – doing it with the best intentions, sure, but still…

It wasn't so out of character for his father, Dean realized, he had always known that John held back things when he saw it fit, made choices that were the right ones, in his opinion. Still making the decisions for Dean as if he was his faithful soldier, first and foremost, before being his son.

The son that had always, always stuck with him, had always backed him up. That had given up his best friend, his brother, to stay in boot-camp for the rest of his life…

Dean realized he'd tensed up again, his muscles going rigid when a tremor ran up his leg and hip, a knot of pain seemingly coming loose somewhere in his shoulder, going on a fiery trail down his left arm and upper chest. He dipped his chin to his chest, finally being able to tear his eyes away from the phone that held no answers to him, unfortunately, that only made the questions appear bigger and bigger by the minute until they'd taken on monumental proportions.

If he wanted to find a way out of this, for himself and his father, Dean knew he had to get himself under control again, body _and_ mind. He had to sit down and give the meds a chance to work, take a step back, evaluate the situation and force himself to not concentrate on the fierce feeling of _hurt_ that kept him wired almost to the edges of endurability.

If he wanted to look at the facts objectively, not through the haze of confusion and pain that was coloring his vision right now, he had to learn how to breathe again. He had to do what he did best, and put his own feelings aside in order to keep up the pretense, the front.

Dean still believed, for whatever reason, that his father had to have had a reason for what he did, that he was right, even though Dean might not entirely understand, might not approve. But he would just go on believing it anyways. He _had to _go on believing. There was just no other way.

Maybe it was the little boy inside him, the kid still hiding in the recesses of Dean's mind – the kid believing that dad was always right, could not do wrong. Was infallible. Would make everything alright again in the end.

Sam had used to reprimand Dean for always being too forgiving when it came to his father's shortcomings, had always accused his older brother for being a wimp when it came to voicing his own resentments, his opinion whenever he disagreed with anything John said or did.

Dean didn't want to be that kind of man, didn't want to always back down, take the step back to keep the peace. He didn't want that. But at the same time he didn't want to always fight, always disagree…always battle his way forward. With the life they led – constant fighting and worrying and hiding – it was hard enough the way it was. Dean wanted some peace at home, ate least, with the only people he truly cared about.

He didn't want to end up like his little brother, having to choose…

Defying dad…it had always been Sam's forte, and Dean…well, the occasions when he'd want to fight, to break free and make a run for it, he'd always been forced to choose – and he'd always chosen security before chance, had always chosen the one thing he'd learned to be able to trust.

Dean winced, baring his teeth in a soundless snarl as an especially harsh tremor raked through the muscles in his calf, rattling his cracked bone and crept up towards his hip once more, pulling at the healing gashes there. If Dean hadn't been absolutely sure that his dad had cleaned the wounds thoroughly with holy water…he could have sworn there was still something left in there, slowing down the healing process.

His body was doing a dangerous balancing act, Dean knew that, knew that he'd pretty damn close to the edge. Too many wounds to heal, too many sites of destruction to take care of. It was bound to take a little longer than usual.

It had been the doctors' words, back at the hospital, John's words, every single day since busting him out. Dean wanted to believe them, he really did.

He finally sat down on the sofa, closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the backrest and focusing inwards. Just like his dad had taught him. He searched for that place inside him, that tiny haven of calm that he harbored and kept well hidden, only to be visited when he didn't know where else to go anymore, when he had lost himself and needed to find back home again.

It always worked – always.

And it didn't fail him now, eve though he had a disturbingly hard time finding it, an even harder time getting in.

But once he was there, he could suddenly breathe a little more freely again.

OoOoOoO

John quietly entered the house through the front door, cursing under his breath when the old door creaked loudly, announcing his presence to the only other occupant of the house. At first he thought he'd managed to not wake his son who sat on the sofa, leg propped up at least, upper body at an awkward angle, his head tipped back against the cushions. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, and John didn't fail to notice the pale pallor of his son's skin, the shadow of a beard making his skin look even more pallid, even more sickly.

He'd lost a lot of weight…

John took a tentative step into the room, closing his eyes momentarily with a low curse as the floorboard underneath his foot gave a sharp crack, as if the house decided that, now of all times, it was time to break down underneath the weight that had been put upon it over all these years. Ending the reign of secrecy that had been surrounding the Winchesters ever since they'd first stayed here.

John kept his eyes closed for a second, took a breath, not moving. When he opened them again, he was met with a set of slightly glazed over, yet piercing green orbs, pupils blown a little too wide for it to be caused only by the low yet sufficient lighting in the room.

So he'd been out of it not entirely of his own doing. John should have known. Dean was never off guard, would have been up and awake the minute someone came within spitting distance of the house…

"Hey…"

John straightened himself, made to move across the room with a stride that was supposed to look like he hadn't just tried to tiptoe into the house. Out of the corner of his eyes he kept close surveillance of his son, though, watching him straightening slowly.

Dean's face was blessedly devoid of any of the deepest lines of pain that had etched themselves into his features lately, his mouth not quite as hard set as it had been pretty much all the time ever since coming here. The meds were helping, were slowly healing him. If John managed to keep him down for a little while longer…

Dean's eyes were slightly swollen, lashes still glued together by stubborn grid and he blinked rapidly a couple of times before reaching up a hand to rub his knuckles over his puffy lids.

His movements were a little sluggish, halting. John hid a wince as he turned away from his son, rolling his own bottom lip between his lips momentarily, releasing it quickly when he heard Dean's slightly hoarse and grating voice from across the room.

"Hey…" he coughed, covering up a groan as he pulled himself completely into a sitting position, but he remained in a sitting position, thankfully, not giving John reason to manhandle him back down.

Sleep still had its clutches on him and he seemed almost weighed down by the thick cover of drugs he'd taken this morning.

It was a scary testament to how close they'd come if Dan was still so weak – weeks after…

"You're back." Dean said on an exhale, leaning forward a little and John didn't miss the way Dean's hadn't sneaked out for his thigh, starting to massage the atrophied muscle just atop his knee. He'd been doing that a lot, lately. Weeks of not being able to move properly – and still so many more to come – it had to leave scars behind.

Dean had spoken quietly, stealing a glance at his watch, John realized, and while his tone had stayed noncommittal, composed, John though he detected something in Dean's voice, an underlying current that was just…off…

John turned towards the kitchen table, ready to drop the bags he'd been carrying onto the tabletop strewn with newspapers.

He was just going to ignore the obvious need he detected in his son's voice…as well as the accusation bleeding out of his words loud and clear for John to hear.

"You've been gone a while."

Now, that tone John couldn't ignore quite as easily anymore.

OoOoOoO

"You've been gone a while." Dean offered, trying to stay calm, swallowing down the last remnants of his anger greedily clawing their way up his throat as John walked across the room and into the kitchen area, his arms filled with paper bags, one of their duffels slung over his shoulder.

Damn if he didn't sound like some neglected housewife, Dean realized, all bitchy about being stood up, preparing lunch with nobody there to appreciate the effort. But he still felt…foggy, his head all screwed up from the meds, from being awakened from sleep too quickly.

John crossed over to the kitchen table, dropping the bags he'd been carrying and turning his face towards Dean, one eyebrow raised in silent amusement. No doubt had he heard the tone, had had the same imagery as Dean, but at least he had the decency to not call Dean on it.

Which was good. Dean wasn't so sure he would have been able to keep his good intentions valid if he'd said anything challenging at this point.

"Well, I went into town. Got supplies, restocked the first aid kit, got you some new clothes. And I washed the ones you haven't managed to tear to shreds yet."

He gave Dean a quick once over, stopping at his face till Dean couldn't help but avert his eyes, cringing inwardly. He was so done being considered weak…

"You could have called. You should have…I thought you'd left…"

John froze for a second, the meaning of Dean's statement, although not spoken out loud no doubt dawning on him.

"I've been gone for no more than four hours. Didn't think I had to account for my every step." He offered with a small smile on his lips, but Dean immediately clamped his jaw shut, taking the statement that was probably meant to be teasing as a warning that he was overstepping his boundaries.

For a second, the silence swamped the room like a smothering blanket.

John started rummaging through the bags, finally turning one of the upside down, pushing a stack of clothes into Dean's direction like a peace offering, almost.

"Here, these are for you. See if they fit."

"Awesome, my dad bought my clothes for me." Dean mumbled, pointedly avoiding his dad's eyes as he ran a hand over his face before raising himself from the couch. He struggled with his crutches, then took a hobbling step into the room, trying not to stay calm, to not jump his dad like he'd had every intention of doing right after talking to Sam.

He still didn't know how to handle the situation – the only thing he was absolutely sure of, was that he didn't want to pick a fight. It had been one of Sam's greatest problems when getting into it with their father – even when his arguments had been the better ones. But Sam had never stayed calm enough, had never played his cards right. He'd never been subtle enough about trying to make their father understand, make him admit to his own mistakes.

Dean took as deep a breath as he could without raising suspicion, to his satisfaction feeling the twinge and pull at the motion subdued enough to push past it easily enough.

He reached the table, awkwardly propping one crutch against the edge, stubbornly refusing to lean himself against the table for support, though.

John had made a couple of piles on the tabletop. There was a stack of newspaper, local and statewide, next to a bunch of napkins that he'd apparently scribbled something on and a pile of clothes. Dean's clothes, or so he'd claimed.

Dean's eyes immediately fell onto one of the garments that lay on top of the neatly folded pile.

"What the hell…are you _serious_?"

The pants were most definitely of the baggy kind – khaki cargo pants with legs way wider than what Dean usually wore, looser around the waist, lots of pockets all over…

"You are aware that you were shopping for me, not Rambo, right?"

John snorted a laugh, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that made Dean believe it was a genuine, an honest laugh.

He'd seen far too little of those, lately. They hadn't really had any reason to laugh a lot…

"Well, since you so vividly drew me a picture of you riding the Impala in your boxers only, I figured it wouldn't hurt if I got you some pants you'd actually be able to pull over that cast of yours. Plus, I think you feel way too comfortable in those battered sweats of yours..."

Ok, yeah, sounded reasonable. Still didn't mean Dean would be wearing _this_…

"The cast will be off soon." Dean mumbled indignantly, putting the pants aside and leaving through the t-shirts and button-downs John had brought.

"Soon is not the word you were looking for, I believe." John offered quietly, gently, while pulling out a leather pouch from the bottom of one of the bags.

The leather pouch that held their silver bullets, usually stored away safe and sound in the Impala's trunk, Dean realized.

The pants were forgotten as quickly as they'd come up as Dean latched onto what he knew was the topic his dad had been trying to avoid.

"So, what exactly took you so long, then? Because clearly, you didn't spend a lot of time figuring out my taste in clothes." Dean asked.

Again, John paused, moving things around on the table seemingly aimlessly, restacking the newspapers, then putting the bag of silver on top of it.

His hands, Dean realized, were so much like Sam's – long fingers and big palms, knuckles standing out starkly against the back of his hand, portraying the strength with which they could fight, hit, punch. Sam and dad – they looked alike way more than either one of them ever wanted to admit to.

Like in so many other ways, physical as well as otherwise, his dad and younger brother had a closer resemblance than Dean had with either one of them. Maybe that had been the true reason why the two of them had never gotten along too well – being too much alike. And maybe it was exactly the reason why Dean had tried so hard, all his life, to act like his dad, to fight like him, to copy him in every other way possible, at least, to imitate him in the only ways he could. So he'd be an eligible member of this family, one that would be recognized as one, too.

"I took a visit to the local bar, picked up on some town gossip. A town this size has its number of town drunks hanging out there even at noon. I figured since we're going to stay here for a while to come, I might as well make sure there's nothing here that needs our kind of attention…"

There was something in John's voice, a teeny tilt of the last word, a faint tick of John cheek as he said it – the way he suddenly avoided Dean's eyes, that had Dean straightening himself up as far as his favored stance between the crutch and his good leg allowed him to.

The way he said it almost too casually…

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, watching his father intently as he started to put away the groceries, didn't miss the way his dad had bought a couple of six-packs of beer, a month-worth supply of bandages and antiseptics.

"So, did you find anything?"

And, just like that, Dean had forgotten about his initial intentions, at least for the moment, had forgotten what he'd absolutely intended to talk to John about. Right now, he had this feeling again – gut-feeling or foreboding that told him that something else was going to go down, something that Dean most definitely needed to know about.

John had his back to Dean, stacking cans and boxes into the cupboard over the sink, but Dean was sure he saw a muscle in his dad's forearm twitch in a way it wasn't supposed to, was sure he saw him halt in his movements for just a second following Dean's question.

John came back to the table and, still avoiding Dean's gaze opened the pouch with the silver bullets, weighing it in his hand almost wistfully, as if the shiny ammunition gave him a clue, a way to begin what he was going to say.

"Might have gotten wind of a werewolf, a little ways south of here."

"What?"

"A werewolf, hunting in the vicinity of a little town called Perry, just an hour's drive from here. Heard the men in the bar talking about it – apparently a handful of people have disappeared, some of them turning up dead a couple days later. Looks like the attack of a wolf."

John closed the pouch again, getting his gun out from one of the duffels and laying it on the table and expertly starting to take it apart, checking each and every cranny, making sure it was clean. Which it was, of course. Their weapons always were in top condition, unlike their owners... The action seemed to give him purpose, seemed to strengthen him, every tiny ounce of insecurity Dean might have detected in his father's behavior before gone as if it had been expelled with the clip of the magazine as John released it from the gun's grip.

Dean felt his heart race up as the implications slowly started to seep in.

"What…but…you sure it's a werewolf? I mean…you checked this out, right? You made sure?"

He felt strangely dizzy, his ears almost clogged up with the vicious beating of his own heart, vision swimming with the unbidden onslaught of images he'd been intending to keep a secret from his father.

John's look said it all, really.

"Who exactly do you think you're talking to, Dean? Of course I checked it out."

"So…uhm…the hearts missing, full moon cycle – all the signs fit?"

Because this…it couldn't be anything else but a coincidence…right?

A very weird, very _fitting _coincident…

"The hearts were missing alright, together with pretty much every single vital organ and a couple of limbs even. They were torn to shreds – identification was possible only because of documents found on them. As to the cycle…some of the victims were found days after, but, yeah, the disappearances fit around the time of the full moon. I'm not a novice at this, Dean, hunted more werewolves than you did, I believe. I know what to look for."

Dean didn't even have time to react to the very apparent insult, didn't really hear, as a matter of fact. All he heard was wolf, saw his father's body, bleeding and lifeless in the field, saw the woman turning into a wolf before his very eyes.

Just a dream.

_Just a dream…_

He jumped as one of the silver bullets hit the table with a dull thump, fingers immediately flexing into a fist as his vision doubled, images overlaying each other for a moment, before he was back in the safe-house, next to his father again instead of standing over John's ravaged body.

He reached his left hand up automatically, digging strong fingers into the corners of his eyes as if able to dispel the images faster, to stop the dizziness threatening to fell him where he stood. He swayed a little, stumbling against the table, his right arm bumping against the wood as he wasn't quick enough to abandon the second crutch and steady himself.

John's head immediately whipped up, eyes squinting shut, ready to drop everything and reach out for him, steady him…catch him. It was exactly what made Dean pull himself together faster than he'd ever thought possible.

His hand dropped quickly, blinking against the suddenly too bright light in the room.

"Ok, uhm…alright. So…Perry. That's pretty close by, right? We definitely should look into it. When's full moon again?" Dean rambled, biding some time, his palm sweaty against the plastic handle of the crutches and he reluctantly let go, wiping it against the fabric of sweats to dry them off.

Dean kept his chin dipped low, his eyes averted. John would have been able to read him in a heartbeat – the way Dean didn't seem to be able to get a fucking grip on himself.

"Full moon's tonight." John said, calmly, and this time Dean did jerk his head up, pinning his father with a disbelieving stare.

"What? No, wait. We can't just go after this thing like this…not out of the blue. We need more time to figure it out…"

_I'm _not ready._ I _need time to figure this out first…

John shot him a look somewhere in between amusement and annoyance.

"_We_ are not going to do anything, Dean. _I _am. And I am prepared, believe me. This is not my first hunt, not my first solo-hunt either."

"No…no."

Dean made to move towards his father but was stopped short when he was reminded of exactly how much he was not prepared, really, when his bad leg bumped against the edge of a chair in his haste to move, not thinking about picking his second crutch up first.

"Goddamnit…" He hissed, bracing himself against the table, muscles in his biceps pulling taut as he fought the immediate urge to slam his fist into the wooden tabletop.

"Sit down, Dean." John said, again reaching out to steady his son, but Dean dodged the offered help.

"No, I'm not sitting down. And you're not going after this thing alone, dad. You can't…you need my help on this…"

"I don't need your…Would you take a look at yourself, Dean? You can barely stand. And you sure as hell are in no condition to hunt anything, let alone a werewolf. I'll go down there, kill the thing and be back by tomorrow morning at the latest. It's an open/shut case, believe me. You'll be fine till then. I got this under control…"

"No you don't, you _don't_."

Dean shook his head vigorously, groping for the crutch, almost toppling it over in his haze to get it

securely in his grip.

"You are not going after this thing alone…"

He was very close to panicking, Dean realized that, but for the first time in weeks he wasn't going to stop himself from going there – or beyond.

A werewolf…dad going after it alone….

It was exactly what he'd seen in his dream, was exactly what the crow had shown him. The woman turning into a wolf and his dad lying dead in the field, his jugular torn by vicious teeth… Dean had no idea how the crow had done it, why it had done it – spirit animal or not - but it had tried to warn him. It had tried to warn him and now Dean had to make sure that it wasn't going to happen.

It wasn't going to happen…

John looked definitely pissed now, the underlying worry at his son's unreasonable behavior slowly but steadily giving way to serious irritation. Dean knew that face, knew when his dad was going to shut him down, shut him out.

He knew the damn signs.

"Dean, this is not open to discussion. I thought I taught you better than this. You are in no position to argue with me, you of all people should know your limits. I'm going to take care of this and be back by tomorrow morning."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not. You are not ready…"

"Like hell I'm not ready. I can be ready. I_ can_ be ready. But you can't…you won't… You don't know what's going to happen…"

Dean was pretty sure he was pretty damn close to hyperventilating, his voice cracking dangerously, but there was no stopping himself anymore. Why wouldn't dad see…why wouldn't he fucking listen to Dean for once? Why couldn't he trust him…

"Dean, stop. Right now. You calm down and tell me what the hell's wrong with you, or so help me god, I'm going to…"

The unspoken threat hung in the room long after John had stopped talking, dangling between them like the giant blade of a guillotine ready to bear down on them any second.

Dean wasn't entirely sure of what exactly his dad was planning on doing, but he did know that, no matter what, he couldn't let John leave the house right now. Not with what he'd seen – dream or vision or whatever the hell else. If he made a fool out of himself, so be it. But this…this was too serious to keep quiet about. This was too serious to be explained away anymore. This was too much of a coincident to be written off as feverish delusions and a serious case of PTSD…

"If you go after this thing alone, you're going to die." Dean blurted out, all emotions boiling inside only as he wouldn't allow them to make their way to the surface. It was the only way, the _only way_, to make his father believe him, to make him see that he wasn't being unreasonable about this.

John stared at him with an expression that was hard to interpret, blinking once.

"Come again?"

Dean took a breath, steeled himself. He'd started this…

"If you go after the wolf by yourself, you're going to die."

"Dean…" John sighed, but Dean him interrupted sharply.

"No, listen to me for once, goddamn it. You're going to die. I had a…I saw…saw it in my dream. I saw that something was going to happen to you."

John's brow furrowed momentarily, his eyes darkening to an impossible shade of black.

"Dean…"

"I saw it, dad…a woman turning into a wolf, and then I saw you. And you were…you were…"

Dean swallowed convulsively, hands once again slick against the crutches, but he didn't have the balance to wipe them off this time.

"You _saw_ it…" John stated.

"Yeah, I saw it. In my dream I saw the crow again and it brought me to you…and you were dead."

There – he'd said it. Hadn't been so hard, had it?

"Dean, come on…" John dropped his chin to his chest, running a hand over his face in silent defeat. Dean knew the gesture, knew the feeling.

"You can't be serious about this. Are we talking about the same crow you saw in the field?"

Dean blinked, trying his hardest to think back to when he'd…when he'd been in the field, trying to figure out what he'd seen back then what he'd said to his dad, how much he knew…

"Yeah…I guess…"

"Dean, that was nothing…it was nothing but a bird. You've been delirious, feverish…"

"I saw the birds, dad…they were there – you saw them too, right? You followed them to where I was. They were circling over me…"

"They were circling over a place of carnage, Dean, circling above the blood. Your blood. They didn't intentionally…"

"I know…I know it sounds weird. I know it doesn't make sense, dad. But I swear there was something about this one crow…it was as if it was protecting me. I didn't see it at first, didn't realize it, but it kept me from going in the wrong direction, woke me up when I was ready to just let go and give up. I swear it wasn't just a normal bird. Its eyes…they kept flashing yellow – and it scared me to hell, and back then I didn't realize it, but it didn't harm me, at all – on the contrary. And it came to me again, in my dreams, over and over…"

Dean could have sworn that there was something in his father's eyes as he mentioned the crow, the eyes, could have sworn John tensed at his words, his eyes becoming distant momentarily, as if he remembered.

For a hopeful, wonderful minute Dean thought his dad actually believed him, took into consideration his son's fear, his conviction.

"The crow meant nothing, Dean. It was nothing but an animal." John finally offered quietly, and Dean could have sworn that he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Dean.

"You'd lost a lot of blood, were in a very bad shape. You kept telling me about this larger than life crow on the phone, told me about its eyes burning yellow. But when I found you…"

He trailed off for a second, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth as he searched for the right words to put this. Dean hang from his father's lips like a little kid listening to a scary-story at bedtime, eager to hear more, frightened to hell of what he was about to listen to.

"When I found you there was this bird – a crow or raven – can't tell the difference. It was…"

John stopped suddenly, reached out to pull over a chair and letting himself drop onto it, motioning for Dean to follow his lead. Dean obliged, however reluctantly, sitting down on a chair opposite his father. But he refused to settle back, his back still ramrod straight, refused to relax, to let the situation get out of his hands.

"It was what, dad?"

John sighed, leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

"It kinda…I'd found the dog – dead, and there was this path between the stalks and I didn't know which way to go to find you."

Dean nodded numbly, remembering too vividly the way the dog had dragged him through the field, his desperate struggle to free himself – to save himself. He felt his pulse quickening again, a harsh beat against the skin of his neck, the mere memory making him sweat…

"I knew I didn't have much time, and when I saw this bird…"

That made Dean perk up again, had him back in the present quickly.

"What bird?" he asked with a voice that sounded like he'd just come out of a bronchitis.

John closed his eyes, sighing again, his shoulders slumping a little as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"It was a crow. It kinda…it croaked at me, then hopped down the path… I followed it and that's when I found you."

Dean's head whipped back at his father's revelation, too surprised at this sudden turn of events to say anything for a while.

So, dad had seen it too. It wasn't just a snipped of imagination, a spawn of Dean's mind. It had been real…

"So you believe me?" Dean rasped out, feeling as if he might fold in on himself from relief all of a sudden, felt so incredibly stupid, too, for keeping this all to himself and at the same time feeling angry at his dad for not sharing that vital piece of information earlier. They'd have saved themselves a lot of worry…

"I believe that you saw something, Dean, that you saw something you wanted to hold on to." John said quietly, and when Dean's jaw clamped shut, eyes on his father again, he suddenly felt so very, very stupid for ever believing anything he said would be taken seriously.

"I believe that this bird was there, and that it might have led me to you, even, but that's all there is to it. There's tons of stories about animals helping people in situations of need – take dolphins saving people from drowning, for example, or other wild animals leading people to victims of various accidents. It's a phenomenon, sure, but its not all that unheard of. The animal was there, and with the condition you were in…you latched onto this because it was the only thing that kept you going."

Dean stared at his father for a full minute, unable to grasp what he'd just heard.

He'd just imagined things…

And what hurt the most was, that Dean knew that he himself would have probably, no, most likely, reacted the same way if the situation had been reversed. But this…this hurt. He was so sure – as sure as he could be about something that he had no proof of, whatsoever.

And still, just this once, he'd have needed someone to have some _faith_ in him…

"You can't go out there, dad. I know I'm right about this." He finally said, even though he knew he'd lost. "I can't lose you, too."

This admission at least broke the unrelenting eye-contact as Dean couldn't bear to look into his father's eyes when admitting to one of his deepest, darkest fears. Being left alone.

Inside he was shouting at the top of his lungs for his father to listen to him, to stay. Outside he kept his eyes averted, hoping for what he knew wouldn't come.

"You're not going to lose me, Dean." John said softly.

"Then stay here. Let someone else handle this."

"I can't have anyone coming here till tonight, Dean, and you know that."

"Wait another month, then. I won't be able to walk properly for at least another month, probably more. We could research this better…"

The moment he'd said it, Dean knew he'd lost. Not to his dad, but to himself, because what he'd just proposed, what he'd just suggested they do was an unspeakable sin in his own eyes. He'd have never even suggested this if it had been his own safety at stake…

The shame at his own words weighed heavily on Dean's mind, and still he couldn't get himself to feel the full weight of the guilt that he should be feeling, by all means. This was his dad he was talking about here. Family came before all else…right…? Why shouldn't he be allowed to think about his own family before somebody else's for once, too…?

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't go, Dean. One reason besides '_I saw you die in my dreams_." John prompted, not at all gruffly, which made Dean feel all the more terrible.

His mouth opened only to snap closed again before getting out the obvious.

"You need a better reason than that?" Dean asked challenging.

Just one good reason…hadn't he just given his father the best damn reason there was?

"That's not good enough, Dean, and you know it. I'm sorry, but it's not. I'll need more than a hunch, or a fever-dream to risk another innocent victim dying tonight."

John was right, of course he was. Dean knew that. But he didn't see what made it any better if his dad was the one drawing the short stick on this one.

"Let me come, then, dad. Let me help. I can carry a gun, I can shoot. I can back you up…"

"I'm sorry, son, but you know, I can't risk it. I can't risk losing you any more than you can. You're in no condition to hunt. I can't watch out for you, make sure nothing happens to you. I'm better off alone."

The words shifted something inside of Dean, something he hadn't been aware had been loose in the first place.

They sat there in oppressing silence for minutes before John finally broke the paralysis laying heavily over the room, getting up and sidestepping Dean, walking back towards the table, picking up his gun and the bag of silver bullets and stuffing them back into his weapon's duffel.

Dean just sat there, his back turned towards his father, trying to gather up the courage to tell his father that it did matter – that _he_ mattered…that to Dean it was more important that John lived than some nameless face he'd maybe dream about later but never got to know. At the same time that he thought about it, he wanted to kick himself for even having that thought. It was so damn wrong…

John crossed the room again, depositing the duffel on the threadbare sofa across the room, carefully to sidestep his son's still hunched form.

Dean's mind was reeling, trying to find a way – a last opportunity to make John stop, to reconsider.

And there was nothing he could think of, nothing that would make his dad change his mind.

Before he knew what he was doing, Dean blurted out what he hadn't been planning on saying – not like this…certainly not now, probably not ever.

"I talked to Sam." Dean said, voice soft and low, clamping his mouth shut as soon as the words had left his mouth.

But he'd said it, and there was no taking it back now.

And his words still offered his father a way out, kind of, gave him the option to admit to his betrayal, turn it around, maybe – better late than never.

'_Oh, yeah, by the way. Forgot to tell you that I talked to him, too. Couple weeks back. Told him a bold faced lie, too – told him we were fine, you were fine, not chewed to a bloody heap by a black dog, hunting solo…'_

John still had his back to Dean, bent over the sofa and in the middle of stuffing something into his duffel.

For a moment, it seemed as if John had stopped breathing, his back completely still underneath his shirt, and Dean involuntarily flexed the fingers of his left hand, digging them into one of the healing grooves on his left thigh – just to make sure that the world hadn't stopped spinning, that they hadn't been caught in some weird kind of freeze…

But no, the dull pain radiating from the wound as he bore down on it felt pretty real, and Dean could move just fine. Could breathe, too, even though his chest felt a little constricted, as if the air in the room was suddenly laden with steam that settled heavily in his lungs.

What felt like minutes later John's back finally moved, a tick that settled between his shoulder blades as his shoulders straightened, tightened, a roll of muscle that started at the top of John's back and seemed to shift down to disappear just below his ribcage. It took only a second, and when the ripple of tension had dissipated, John continued moving, continued his motions of packing as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn't just stopped spinning for a second.

Dean kept holding his breath, bracing himself for the storm or total shut down.

Hoping against hope that, if they got into an argument, dad would come to his senses, would listen to Dean – would not go and get himself killed. It had nothing to do with the topic at hand, apparently, but Dean had kinda run out of options here – he was desperate.

"He told me – Sam told me. That you talked…"

He didn't know what he'd expected.

John's shoulders slumped, just a little, defeat rolling off of him like a giant wave, but within seconds he had himself under control again, his body once again erect and ready – always ready. It didn't take much to know that Dean had lost his one and probably only chance, then.

"I did what was best, Dean." He said, voice low and gravelly, a harsh edge creeping into the words.

Dean knew that edge, knew it was the precursor to John's full on marine-voice, the unrelenting tone that brooked no argument, that would leave Dean flailing helplessly inside without ever getting a word of protest out in the open. Almost there – but not quite – not yet.

Unlike Sam, Dean always had been pretty good at deciphering his father's emotions, his body language – and had known when to stop. But his perception was all shot to hell, lately. And maybe he just didn't give a damn anymore.

"Best for whom?" he asked, the challenge in his tone unmistakable, even though it was toned down considerably due to simple exhaustion. And he really, really wanted to know. He wanted nothing more than to understand John's motivations. He always used to be the one defending his father – their father – in front of Sam, even though most of the time he'd had no idea what said motivations could have been…

"Best for all of us. If Sam had known…"

"What…what would have happened if Sam had known?" Dean asked, no longer able to keep the bitterness from seeping into his words.

What if Sam had known? He'd most likely given John hell, that's what – they'd been right at it again. Not that big of a difference, was it? Not as if John had ever cared before.

John straightened, but kept his back to Dean. Dean suspected it had something to do with not being able to look at Dean, as if he'd been looking at him too much, lately.

"You know your brother…" John stalled, carefully keeping his face averted, and all Dean could see his father's cheek tick, once, from the way his head was turned slightly to reveal just the tiniest hint of his profile to his son.

Dean stayed quiet, waiting this one out. He wasn't going to rise to the bait. He wasn't.

"He would have freaked, he would have…used it as a weapon, an excuse to…"

Dean turned to face the faded wallpaper of green leaves and ranks that adorned the far wall of the living room, not able to look at his father, not able to face what he knew was his father facing up to one of his greatest fears.

"This…this was one of the reasons he turned on us, you realize that? And if he'd know how bad off you've been, how close you've come…"

Dean squinted his eyes shut at his father's words, felt his hands coil into fists automatically. It wasn't as if he didn't know how goddamn close he'd been – again – but hearing it spoken out loud… It made it real.

He'd almost died. Alone. Without Sam there, without Sam ever finding out, maybe…

"You had no right keeping that from him, dad." He said with a voice rough from barely suppressed anger and indignation.

"You had no right cutting him out like that. He had a right to know…"

He left out the fact that, maybe, he – Dean would have had a right to know, too. That he would have wanted Sam to know, would have wanted him to come – would have needed him. He would have wanted to wake up and find his brother there, in a chair next to his bed, like he'd been so many times before. Sure, dad had been there, trying to substitute, but it didn't nearly cut it. Never had.

But he didn't say it because it never had been about him, had it?

"He left us, Dean." John's voice was suddenly hard, laced with spite – but Dean didn't fail to detect the underlying note of pain – deep, heart-wrenching regret.

"He left us willingly, knowingly. Left us a man short and he didn't care then, either. He gave up his right to know, Dean."

"That's not…it's not true. He's still family, dad. He's still your son. And if he'd known…he would have come. He would have."

It became harder to breathe again, the air in the room rippling with energy, almost. Dean had never felt like this, ever before. But he'd never really stood up to his father before, had he? He'd never dared to speak his mind.

_Dad is right, he has a reason for what he does, Sam._ Dean had said those words to his little brother countless times over the years, in variations that always accumulated to the one, ultimate meaning.

Dad had a reason for what he did. He had to. Because if he didn't…Dean didn't know what to believe anymore.

"Yeah, he would have come, Dean. And maybe he'd even have stayed." At that, Dean's head snapped up, eyes once again searching for his father's face, finding dark eyes skittering away from his as John turned his head quickly.

"He might have stayed, but he wouldn't have done so willingly. It would have been the same thing all over again. And eventually, he would have left again. You know that. It has to be his decision, not ours. Not mine or yours. That's why I didn't tell him. And I didn't tell you because I knew you'd let it pull you down. And you needed…you need to concentrate on yourself, Dean. We can't afford to get distracted yet again…"

Dean felt his head snap back in irritation – irritation at the honest concern, and the deeply hidden bullshit he heard in his father's words. So maybe he meant the things he'd said, had actually always had the bigger picture in his mind, wasn't just trying to cover up his own failings, his own shortcomings. But if he really cared so goddamn much…

"I would have needed him to get better, dad. And I need you… You're right, I can't do this by myself."

It was as close to an admission of weakness as Dean was able to offer. He was so far out of his familiar territory, he could have been on a different planet than his father right this moment.

"You are not alone, Dean." John said, but the way he stood there, a mere two feet away and still…

"If you want to help, dad…if you really want me to get better – for us to get better…then stay. Stay here and don't go after this thing alone. Stay here and…I don't know…lets do this together, dad. Please. Just…"

…_trust me._

But it was useless. Dean knew, because he himself wouldn't have reacted any differently than his father. For all the similarities between his father and his little brother, there was one thing Dean had in common with John Winchester as well. He wouldn't let anything come between himself and the hunt. Saving people…

"I'm sorry Dean. But this…this is what we do. How would you feel if we sat this out and there was another victim found tomorrow? Another mother or father or daughter or son killed because we didn't do our job properly?"

"You ever wonder how I'd feel if you'd die on the job, dad? If you didn't come back from this? You think I'd feel any better knowing that I sacrificed my father instead of someone else?"

John didn't meet Dean's eyes, no matter how long and how hard Dean stared at him, willing him to admit to it, to listen, for once, to his son's greatest fear.

This was him – Dean – baring his soul, goddamn it. Why the hell wouldn't anybody ever listen?

When John finally looked up at him, he didn't need to say anything for Dean to know he'd blown his chance. For real.

Dean closed his eyes, his jaw jutting out while shivering with shattering impotence.

John's voice, when it one again cut through the moment's silence was soft, placating.

"I'm going to get my things ready and leave in about an hour. I want to get a head start, get a feel of the area it's hunting in – be there before it gets dark. It's a clear case – open/shut. But I promise I'll be careful…more than usual, alright? Despite what you might think, I do want to come back after, you know? That's the best I can give you, Dean."

_The best he could give._

Dean nodded reflexively, kept his eyes glued to the spot where the cheap linoleum of the kitchen floor met the worn hardwood of the living area – the spot that still held the burn mark from when Dean had dropped a hot pan there once. Trying to make bacon and eggs for his father and brother. A tiny snipped of memory that meant nothing, really, in the greater scheme of things, and still…

Of course John wanted to come back – of course he'd be careful.

But dad hadn't seen what Dean had, didn't know what Dean knew. He hadn't felt the utter despair – the hopelessness. He hadn't felt the overwhelming _loneliness…_

John would never be careful enough if it came to his own safety.

There was another things the two older Winchesters had in common, another thing Sam had always accused both of them of, and suddenly Dean knew how utterly terrified his little brother must have felt when he'd been assured by his brother and father that, of course they'd be careful, of course they'd come back and be alright. That nothing bad was going to happen to them, ever.

Damn liars they had been.

Or maybe they'd really believed it, back then.

...maybe John still didn't have a damn clue.

OoOoOoO

TBC

_AN:_

_alright, so...I'm going to go into hiding now. _

_You'll probably think I've totally lost it with this chapter...I'm sure...after all those wonderful reviews telling me how much the Winchesters are in character in my stories...and now I come up with this? I fretted about this chapter for a long, long time, up to a point where I didn't want to post it, wanted to postpone it till next week. But that wouldn't have made it any easier on me, and i won't make it better. and I had to make John go after the wolf...and I think, despite how much I would like to see Dean face up to his dad...it wouldn't be in character, at least not in my own little world. ah well, I'm making excuses for crappy writing and a bad imagination, I know. _

_I'm always nervous posting, but this has to be one of the worst times for a long, long time._

_someone once told me that i'm my own worst enemy. maybe that person was right. _

_I'll go fight myself now._

_thanks for reading_

_don't hate me!_


	16. Chapter 16

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 16**

John left in the early afternoon.

Dean hadn't asked him to stay, not again. Not after being told off once. Not even being absolutely sure that dad was making a big, fat mistake. It wasn't about pride, not solely so, but Dean knew that getting all petulant and pushy on the matter would only achieve the opposite of what he really wanted. He'd be pushing John away faster instead of making him stay.

Just like Sam, always doing exactly the opposite of what their dad told him to. Had to be a stubborn streak than ran in the family, passed down through generations.

Dean didn't say a word while silently watching his father pack his stuff, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. But from the look his father had cast his way, Dean was pretty sure that he wasn't nearly as unreadable as he would have liked, that John knew – and that Dean didn't even remotely have himself under control, not the way he used to.

He was a goddamn open book, all his carefully crafted defenses down, washed away like they'd never even been there in the first place.

It pissed Dean off to no end that he didn't have himself under control, lately, and if he was just a little honest with himself, it also scared the crap out of him.

If he didn't even have this last resort of self-preservation anymore – what did he have left, really, to keep himself sane?

John left with barely a couple of words mumbled underneath his breath, telling Dean to take care of himself, he'd be back by morning. That had been all that had been said between them. Dean had by then given up trying to fight a losing battle. He'd opted on saving his strength instead.

Once dad had left, Dean got himself moving.

Even though – moving might not have been the correct word for it, at least not the word he would have used before…

Dean waited until the Impala pulled out of the driveway and her rumbling voice disappeared down the street before he got up, moving his stiff and unresponsive body across the room to the stack of clothes John had bought.

He went through the arduous task of getting himself dressed – and, yeah, his dad might have been right, because the offending pair of cargo-pants _did_ fit – but they _also_ looked ridiculous, and all the while Dean still hoped despite knowing better that dad would come back. That he'd walk in the door any minute now and declare that he'd pulled his head out of his ass, finally, and come to his senses.

That he trusted Dean, would follow his lead, for once.

But of course it didn't happen.

By the time he'd managed to get himself into the pants and two layers of shirts his anger had reached high enough proportions again to blank out the worry and fear and pain at least partially.

He quickly swallowed two painkillers, then sat down to awkwardly pull on his right boot, ignoring the dull throb the movement chased through his abdomen, tying the laces extra tight so he wouldn't accidentally trip over them. It felt strange, going out with only one shoe, as if part of him was missing, almost. His shoes were like another part of his body, almost, worn in through years, softened by sweat and dirt and blood to fit his feet like a second skin.

Dean had never done well with changes, had always preferred the familiar over the new. In that, at least, he was so unlike his brother. Maybe it was because Dean had always given Sam stability – something Dean had never had, never been granted. People tended to look for the things they didn't have, always thinking that the grass on the other side of the fence was much greener.

But his life had been changed forever when Sam had walked out; so much that Dean still had trouble grasping the finality of the situation. The boots were only the tiniest part of it – and they were not going to be a constant. A few weeks from now, he'd slip back into his left boot again, hopefully, and it would be as if he had never taken it off.

Other things, though…

Dean closed his eyes, took a couple of steadying breath and waited for his heart to stop beating quite so wildly inside his chest, for the moment he could unclench his jaw again, not running the danger of breaking his teeth anymore from the pressure he kept on them.

He was ready for this. _He needed to be ready._ Dad depended on him – even if he was too stubborn to see it, too proud to admit to it. But he needed Dean, no matter how sorry an excuse of a rescue-team Dean was right now.

Determinedly, Dean slipped his duffel over his right shoulder, standing precariously on one leg until he found his balance on the crutches, his fingers wrapped around the plastic handles in a death grip.

This was one hell of a crazy mission.

Even on their scale -on _Dean's_ scale, this rated pretty high up there.

Sam would call it a suicide mission, and maybe that was exactly what it was, but Dean was alright with that. He was - as long as it wouldn't leave him on his own, in the end.

When he stepped out into the street, slowly making his way towards town, away from the house, towards his father, hope was still evident, still present as he repeatedly checked the road, unconsciously waiting for the black body of his car to come back to him. His father's face would be pensive and dark behind the windshield, ready to jump Dean for going out and after him, ready to divert attention away from the fact that he'd listened to his son and come back after all.

They'd never talk about, Dean would never bring it up, never told his dad _I told you so_, because he didn't do that. He'd accept it silently, thankfully.

He'd say nothing as his dad pulled him into the car and took him back to the safe-house or anywhere else, for that matter**. **It didn't matter as long as they were together again.

It was an innocent wish, the wish of a little boy who didn't know that wishes didn't always come true. Hardly ever, as a matter of fact.

And, as wishes went with the Winchesters especially, Dean knew, not even so deep down, that waiting and wishing and holding his breath was pointless.

Just like the yellow bike he'd wanted for his 6th birthday, or the toy racecar track a year or two later.

Dean had never fretted over not being granted his wishes, had always accepted it with silent stoicism. Even though it _had_ stung.

And John not coming back now…not staying in the first place…it hurt so much more than the disappointment over some stupid toy.

OoOoOoO

Dean didn't really know when it happened, but somewhere on his trek down the street, away from their house and towards town, Dean lost all hope that his dad would come back.

He reserved all his strength, focused all his concentration on moving forward. This was just the first part of his mission, the tiniest, least exhausting part of it. This was Dean, still in the best physical condition he could be in nowadays, still in no real danger from any supernatural being – still only in danger of failing due to his own insufficiencies, his physical inadequacies.

He kept his chin low, his eyes on the ground, watching the roughly paved road, concentrating on the dull thud of his crutches hitting the ground, the light swish of the sole of his boot as he swung his body forward. The tiny moment of being airborne, of not standing on either one of his own two legs brought relief only in the lowest regions of his body, a small reprieve to the twisting muscles in his legs but putting an ever increasing sprain on his upper body instead.

Already, his shoulder felt _raw…_and still he wasn't anywhere near done.

By the time he'd made it to the next neighbor's house, hope was but a faint memory, nothing but a pretty idea.

But pain and exhaustion were still subdued by fierce determination and a small helping of his meds, which was a benefit he had to savor as long as it lasted.

He found the neighbor's old Honda parked behind the shed at the back of the house, found the door unlocked too. He didn't even check if the car was an automatic or not, hotwiring it instead and only laterrealizing how fucked he'd have been if the vehicle had had a stick shift instead.

But Dean didn't have the energy to fret about something that hadn't even happened, hell he didn't even to care to check if someone was coming out of the house after him. Instead, he simply concentrated on gently easing the car out of the property and onto the street.

All he focused on was the map he'd memorized in his head, the map he'd studied earlier, when dad had been in the bathroom. One thing dad could be trusted with, always, was marking the places he was about to hunt at on his map, compulsively almost, marking the spot with a big, clear, red X. Dean had always thought that dad's predictability in some departments would be problematic, but instead they turned out to come in pretty handy right now.

Dean always had been good in memorizing things – maps and patterns – those things had always come easy to him. Anything except Latin. But he'd always had Sam to fill in for that, so he hadn't really seen the point in trying too hard.

But all that mattered now was that Dean made his way to Perry before his body shut down on him, before it made him pay the price for his harsh abuse. He had to make it before it was too late, before what the crow had shown him would become a gruesome reality.

OoOoOoO

Deep into the hunt, John had to admit that it wasn't quite the open and shut case he'd insisted it was. But he'd insisted for Dean's benefit, not his own, had wanted to make himself believe it because he knew his son could see through him with way too little effort sometimes.

It _was_ a father's responsibility to take his son's fears away, right? It was his goddamn job – one he'd failed on too many occasions already in the past. He doubted that he'd succeeded, though, if the look Dean had worn, the open misery radiating from his posture, his expression, was anything to go by.

It surprised John, and frightened him a little, seeing how _expressive_ his eldest was all of a sudden, how unveiled. He had a hard time imagining all the other times in the past when Dean had felt just like he was feeling now, hurt and confused and in pain, but he had still been able to keep it all behind his carefully crafted mask.

But this – it was the only way. Dean wasn't in any condition to hunt, and he clearly wasn't thinking straight. John would show him that he could be the father that made things alright again - he would. He would take his son's fears away, make him feel safe.

John spent the entire afternoon after arriving in Perry looking around town, keeping his ears open, filing away everything he heard, making notes of strange occurrences, weird sightings. The town was not bristling with news of the latest death anymore, a month was a long time and people tended to forget quickly, even in small towns, and go about their business after the first shock had faded. So far, there hadn't been enough deaths to really make people overly suspicious, either, so it was even harder for John to find any traces as to where to start looking.

There'd been no reported attacks prior to the first killing, nobody being bitten by a wild animal and surviving the attack. No strange occurrences at all, as a matter of fact, despite the usual town gossip of the usual lonely old woman living in her house with a dozen cats that as sure as anything had to be a witch, rumors about the local herb-shop lady supposedly tampering with magic, cursing unfaithful lovers and the likes.

Nothing at all gave John one single clue as to where the wolf might be lurking, wearing a decent citizen's skin all day, only to turn feral once every month and slay one of the townspeople.

And while it wasn't all that unusual that John had insufficient leads, hell, he'd worked on a lot less than what he had at the moment, he couldn't help but feel this twinge of unease, the gnawing doubt that wouldn't stop nibbling at his stomach, that somehow this time he was in over his head.

He knew it was unfounded, solely sired by Dean's fevered fears and his delirious dreams that meant nothing whatsoever yet he couldn't quite rid himself of the looming shadow that seemed to be floating over his head. He couldn't sidestep or outrun it, no matter how hard he tried. Dean had never been one to get carried away by foreboding dreams or feelings, had always been the reasonable one. But now he had warned John that something terrible was going to happen, and no matter what John had told his eldest, he couldn't help but feel that, maybe, one of these days his luck would indeed run out, that he would run into something he couldn't deal with.

In hunting years, John was pretty old already, if not ancient. Hunting years were almost like dog-years, eating away at youth and turning you into a gnarled old man in the blink of an eye. There was only a handful of hunters out there who surpassed him in years of experience by now.

Sure, there was the odd exception that proved the rule –like Bobby, for example, but Bobby wasn't into it full-time, 24/7. Bobby ran his own business, hunted with information rather than with actual physical force most of the time. Most hunters John knew had at least the semblance of a normal life besides The Job, earning their money at least partly with honest professions.

John wasn't stupid, he knew that the only thing that had kept him from diving even deeper into the abyss that was his life, that had saved him from going completely overboard so far, had been his boys. Without them, he'd be long gone – mentally at least, maybe even physically already. Those boys had been the only reason on more than one occasion that John had found that last ounce of strength to keep going, that last bit of hope that had kept him alive.

It used to be enough to remember them waiting for him, back at whatever ramshackle motel he'd managed to park them at, to have him _want_ to come back.

Lately, with both of them grown up and so definitely not dependant on himanymore**…**he'd found himself losing it more often, found himself straying from the path he'd set out to follow all these years ago – a lonely promise he'd given his wife on uncountable nights, promising her to keep them safe.

He'd never promised to keep himself safe, though.

Sam was gone – safe, or so John hoped, prayed for each and every night, with all his heart.

And Dean…well, Dean was still there, always had been, and maybe it was that fact exactly that had John forgetting he still had something to return to, after all.

John reassured himself that Dean's dream didn't scare him, that it was a nightmare constructed only of his son's overactive imagination, a product of the stress of his injuries. Dean was still struggling, with the whole situation in general, and John had no doubt that in his pain and confusion following the attack of the black dog, Dean had twisted his own mind into believing that he was going to lose his father, too.

Well, it wasn't going to happen.

John was prepared.

And he wouldn't let Dean's dream faze him in the slightest.

OoOoOoO

Dean had to admit that he might have been a tad foolish to think that he'd be able to hunt in his condition.

And dad had been a fool to think that it would be anywhere near enough to stop Dean from trying anyways.

Only that, from the way things were looking right now, it hadn't really been such a smart idea to begin with.

By the time Dean reached the small town of Perry, he seriously regretted his decision of taking off without second thought – without first thought, maybe, considering that he really, really should have known that he wouldn't be able to do this. What had he been thinking? For weeks now he hadn't even been awake for any longer period of time, surely hadn't been sitting up, his leg hanging down, the wounds in his abdomen and side ferociously protesting the tight squeeze his sitting position put on them. Even though dad had taken the stitches out just yesterday Dean really, really shouldn't have strained them this much…

The pain hadn't even really registered for the first 50 miles or so on the road, adrenalin and purpose too dominant in his mind still, covering up most of the physical discomfort. He'd been aware of his body's murmuring protests but had successfully been able to dismiss them, blank them out and pretend they didn't exist. Anger and fear in equal parts firing him up, pushing him onwards, towards the edges of endurance.

All that mattered was his father – that Dean got him back.

That he wasn't going to be left alone.

By the time he'd finally reached Perry, the sun was already starting its slow decent, slipping towards the edge of the world, dusk an already faint idea on the horizon, laying like a dimming blanket over the town.

It had taken him forever to get here, considering that it really wasn't all that far from their safe-house. But getting dressed, then limping his way down the mile or so of road till he'd found the car had taken much longer than he'd expected. And then he'd taken extra precautions to not exceed the speed limit, dreading getting stopped for the simple reason that it probably wouldn't sit too well with any police officer, not even a female one, if he was caught steering a vehicle in his physical condition while being under the influence of some pretty compromising drugs. He really, really shouldn't be driving when the road kept swimming in and out of focus all the time, should he?

He'd taken another pill once he'd gotten into the car – half the minimum dosage – just enough to take the edge off.

But if this was the edge taken off, Dean really didn't want to know…

He ached, literally ached to the bone to take another one, just to keep himself alert, but at the same time knew that it might served to do the opposite, most likely.

Never go into a hunt in any way intoxicated – dad had been very clear about that, all his life.

What dad's training had failed to mention, though, was what to do if intoxication was the only thing that kept him walking.

Dean shifted his weight for about the 100th time, trying to adjust his body into the least painful position, knowing that he would fail, no matter what. Besides, he wouldn't have to sit much longer.

He had gotten his one and only good lead on where he might find his dad – and the wolf, preferably. Local bars still proved to be a haven of information, even at this still relatively early hour, even in his condition. Some people might have looked at him a bit funny, but the girl cleaning the tables had felt sorry for him, her eyes going all _gooey_, being all over him from the minute he'd walked in. had been easy enough to get some useful stories out of her. Including the one about the tall and dark stranger walking in here a couple of hours prior, asking the exact same questions Dean just had.

And then he'd finally had a location – or something pretty close to one, at least.

Dean drove the old Honda slowly down the path, a path leading seemingly deeper and deeper into the patch of forest surrounding the southern part of town. The father along he got, the more his gut started churning, the pit in his stomach seemingly deepening impossibly.

This looked nothing like what he'd seen in his vision or dream or whatever the hell it had been.

_Nothing_ like it.

So completely different…

…and still with every minute of searching, every yard he moved forward, the dread just grew and grew.

He'd always been a hunter that trusted his instincts, why should this be any different?

Well, maybe because it didn't make one freaking sense? Yeah that could be it.

This wasn't the field, certainly wasn't any kind of field at all, was far from the clear, open space he'd seen in his dream. Which was good, it was good.

It was awesome, because it would mean that his dad wouldn't die at the hands…claws…teeth of a werewolf, right?

Right.

As his fingers flexed around the Honda's unfamiliar and uncomfortable steering wheel he felt strangely exposed in the car that wasn't his own, that didn't offer the security and protection the Impala had provided him with for as long as he could remember. In addition to his body feeling so terribly out of focus, the strange means of transportation only served to notch up the dread creeping up Dean's spine by a thousand fold.

This wasn't right, it wasn't. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

For the second time in a short while now the Winchesters were hunting separately, each trying to clean up the other's mess and probably only serving to dig themselves in so much deeper in the process.

Dean almost missed the sudden glint of metal sneaking its way out from behind a set of bushes, off to the side of the road. He slammed the breaks hard, cursing through clenched teeth as his body protested the rough handling with an angry burst of fireworks through his abs and shoulder. As soon as he was again able to see past the stars crowding his vision, Dean chocked off the motor and started the arduous process of folding himself out of the vehicle that seemed to be anything but built to accommodate a man his size. He did have time to idly wonder how Sam would have managed to even get into this thing, but soon found the effort of hauling his body over the rough and uneven ground with his crutches too much of a hassle to think about much else anymore.

The Impala was hidden a little ways off the road, barely visible from the path and invisible to anyone who wasn't consciously looking, her black skin almost seamlessly coalescing with the dark foliage surrounding it.

They were a little ways off the main path here, off the path the townspeople took when trying to cut through this corner of the forest to get form one to the other part of town. The path Dean had followed ran a mile or two south and parallel to the bigger, the new road, but Dean had known where John would park the Impala in order to be far enough away from the action, yet close enough in case he needed to make a fast escape. It made him oddly proud, for whatever reason, to see that he thought just like his dad, that he'd been trained well. But the pride soon enough vanished when he remembered why he had to come here, in the first place.

The car was empty, of course, locked and secured, the trunk-lid not budging.

But Dean did have all the weapons he needed, all the silver bullets he'd been able to liberate from his father's pouch without being too obvious and still leaving plenty for John to do the job. He was as prepared as he was going to get.

Dean leaned against his girl for a minute, collecting himself, taking stock. Drawing whatever strength for what lay ahead from her reassuring presence.

He took out his gun, making once again sure that it was loaded and ready, dreading the fact that he wouldn't be able to hold onto it while walking…hobbling into the woods in search of a freaking werewolf without any quick ways of protecting himself. There was another stab of dread as the realization of the madness of what he was doing dawned on him with startling clarity – again – but again he was able to push his doubts all the way at the back of his mind. Or, maybe, the middle of his mind; anywhere but right up front. He didn't need any further distraction.

He placed the gun back into the hem of his jeans at the small of his back, handle pointed towards the right so he would get a quick enough grip on it when the need arose. He'd always be able to dump the crutch and grab it, fire it within seconds, or so he hoped.

He didn't want to bring the duffel because it was too heavy, weighed his body down unnecessarily and made him loose his balance in the rough terrain. He had everything he needed on his body, really – gun and knife, matches and a small can of gasoline. He'd brought one of his light jackets, always liking the many pockets it came with. Right now it proved to be even more practical than usual.

After a cursory sweep of the duffel Dean came to the conclusion that it could be left behind, hoping that his dad hadn't strayed too far, hoping that they wouldn't need the extensive first aid kit Dean would be leaving behind. Well, dad would have carried his own with him, of course, but one never knew.

Dumping the bag on the ground Dean used one of his crutches to push it underneath the Impala – out of view, should anyone happen to walk by.

Then he once more wrapped his fingers around the handles of his crutches, took the first dragging step forward.

OoOoOoO

About two hundred and seventy something steps later Dean's biceps were burning, his right leg trembling from the effort it took to haul his body across the rough and definitely not level ground. He was sweating rivers, despite the chill of the night and he had to repeatedly shake his head in order to dispel some stubborn beads of sweat dripping into his eyes and burning like crazy.

The small plastic stoppers at the bottom of the crutches hardly provided any traction on the thick undergrowth of the forest floor, which made moving even harder, even more exhausting.

More than once he almost fell as his walking aids got stuck in a ditch or hole, slipping off a twig or stone, almost sending him tumbling down. More than once he actually had to set his left foot down to catch his balance, sending bolts of burning pain up his leg.

Pain coursed through his body like a steady beat, the thrumming soundtrack of his miserable existence.

This was madness.

All of it.

Dad was probably long done finishing off the werewolf, already burning the body.

The full moon long ago had started to seep through the thick foliage of the trees, bathing the night in an almost unnatural silvery light.

Dean had to stop, to catch his breath and force his heart to slow the vicious beat it kept drumming in his chest, weeks of lying dormant not having done any favors to his stamina, apparently. His muscles felt about as firm as a little kid's. It was a frightening and unfamiliar feeling, left him feeling vulnerable, exposed.

He wanted nothing more than to sit down a bit, or lean against one of the seemingly millions of trees surrounding him but he knew that if he sat down now, he wasn't very likely to get up again.

Just a minute…

He though he never stopped being aware of his surroundings, despite the pain making him dizzy, always staying conscious of the situation, his senses tuned in to the sounds of the forest, always wary. But then the cracking sound of a snapping twig at his back had him had him jerking so hard almost stumbled, catching himself from falling at the last possible second.

He spun around with a swiftness that would come to surprise him when thinking about it later, his body suddenly devoid of the weight wearing it down constantly over the last weeks.

Leaves rustled underneath his foot, a twig cracking as the crutch snapped it in two.

His eyes roamed the semi-darkness around him frantically, searching even though he wasn't sure he actually wanted to see, if he was ready for either the werewolf, alive and in person, ready to pounce on Dean or yet another revelation, another vision.

But there was no crow.

Instead, there was the woman again.

The woman he'd seen in his dream, in the field.

The naked woman.

Since there was no wheat here, in the middle of the forest, Dean had a pretty clear view of her this time. And she definitely, most certainly didn't wear even the tiniest scrap of fabric anywhere on her body. She didn't look at him, her posture very erect as she walked gracefully and with long, purposeful strides across the little clearing between the trees.

The pale moonlight bounced off her skin, paling her color to almost milky white, her hair to a dull, grayish-brown. The little leather pouch around her neck swayed softly with her movements, brushing against her skin almost sensually and Dean found his eyes glued to the strange piece of jewelry, mesmerized by it.

He was so immersed in the sight that he failed to react as he should have, dropping the crutch and reaching for the gun, taking aim. Only when he saw the pouch move against her collarbone as she turned her head towards him was he propelled back into the here and now, stumbling back a step as he suddenly found her staring at him, her eyes boring into his very soul. His stance almost faltered, body overbalancing as he finally relented his death grip on the crutch and finding the hilt of his gun, whipping it out and releasing the safety in one swift motion.

At that moment, the moonlight hit her eyes in a peculiar way, and for a moment they lost shape, lost focus, shifted into the slightly distorted dark rimmed amber orbs of a wolf.

They snapped back to their original form as fast as they'd turned, and still the experience left Dean flailing, left him gasping for breath.

Something about her…

But he reacted nonetheless, a deeply ingrained instinct – a hunter's instinct. Years of training had him pull the trigger of his gun despite the fact that he was still reeling, still trying to decipher the situation, to entangle the thoughts that kept surging through his confused brain.

The silver bullet ripped through her chest, Dean's aim true as it went straight for the goal.

She didn't flinch, didn't even blink as she kept moving, seemingly unfazed by the deadly projectile to her heart.

Dean blinked in surprise, but didn't waste one second to wonder further, instead firing the second bullet with as true an aim as the first.

The only reaction he got was an ever so faint smile ticking the corners of her mouth upwards.

And then she was gone.

Her body just…disappeared, flicking out of existence, with the blink of an eye swallowed by the night.

Just a vision – _another vision._

Another sign.

Her face forever imprinted in Dean's mind, floating before his eyes, trying to nudge his brain, to push him forward but only managed to leave him faltering.

There was a moment of clarity, a brief flash of recognition flashing through Dean's mind, but he couldn't be entirely sure because it was gone again and quickly as it had come to him.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

Dean blinked his eyes furiously, beads of sweat fanning from his lashes as he tried to clear his hazy vision to make sure she was gone. That she'd never been there, not for real, at least. He took a step, intending on moving out of the shadow of a tree to be able to see better, when he realized that he was missing a vital part, almost another part of his body now.

"Fuck…" he hissed between clenched teeth, catching himself with his right arm braced against a tree. His left shoulder was stiff, fingers curling but seemingly unable to curl into a fist entirely.

While he was still struggling to remain upright, to resist the ferocious pull of his leg, his whole body to go down he was working as if on autopilot, shifting his weight so his shoulder leaned against the trunk of a tree. He stuffed the gun back into his jeans and pulled the fallen crutch within reach with his cast-covered leg.

Strangled sounds of agony erupted from his throat as he bent over, attempting to pick up the hated walking aid. He gave himself one precious second to dive through the crashing wave of nausea and pain that washed over him, his abdomen folding inwards as he bent over. Just a second…which might have turned into a couple of seconds and he had himself under control again, the heat once again pushed back behind the wall that had suffered dangerously over the course of the past weeks.

He straightened himself, crutches dangling from sweaty fingers as he hurriedly fixed them in his grasp and starting moving again, propelling himself forward with a speed that betrayed the weakness pounding against his defense with insistent, yet again muted ferocity.

He had to get there – wherever there was, had to be faster…faster than her. Faster than the creature.

And he had a very strong reason for pushing past his physical barriers, the biggest, fattest goddamn incentive Dean had ever needed to keep going, to push himself past what seemed possible. Way better than saving people he, in most cases, never go to meet, never got to know and who never even thanked him.

The only real reason, ever.

He might still have a shot at saving his father, after all.

OoOoOoO

John felt strangely naked.

This wasn't the first hunt he'd taken on alone, not the first werewolf he'd hunted solo, either. Although, usually, he'd prefer to hunt the vicious beasts with backup because they were some nasty fuckers. Fast and strong, instincts of an animal paired with the deceitful mind of a human. One wrong step – one wrong move…

But he was prepared, he was ready. Had always been ready.

John had a whole magazine of silver bullets, and a rough estimate of the area the wolf had been hunting in.

He'd have preferred to know the creatures human shell, would have preferred to catch it at home, maybe, before it ever turned, or in the act of doing so instead of waiting out here, in the belt of forest surrounding the small town, hoping that the creature wouldn't come here with a victim already dead but instead waiting here to pounce on someone just happening to walk or drive by.

But since he'd not had enough time to research this more thoroughly, didn't have the resources to do it all in one day, this was how it was going to be.

He'd found this old ranger's station, long since abandoned, that was right at the intersection of some old road – a road that wasn't used much anymore. But the road lay convenient to the strip of bars and fast-food joints the small town had to offer, and occasionally some of the residents would take the old road home instead of taking the newer street that went all the way around town. The much longer way. People tended to ignore danger in favor of convenience, unfortunately.

All the previous victims had been found in this area, so it was a close enough assumption that they'd been taken here as well. Inside the small, dilapidated wooden house John had found signs of _something_ staying there, lurking in the dark. There were bits of fur, a handful of gnawed bones, some spots of a dried substance that could be blood or other body-fluids. They could be anything really, the feast of a bear or coyote, but John had a feeling, and his feelings usually didn't lead him astray.

So he waited.

He'd parked the Impala a safe distance from the hiding place, had to make sure he didn't get a scratch on her, or Dean would go ballistic on him. Also, he didn't want to alert the creature to his presence, so he'd made his way in on foot. Barely a 15 to 20 minute walk, but it had to be enough.

As he sat behind a pile of old, moss-covered wood, his gun safely in his hand, John couldn't help but wonder how it was that the tingling sensation at the back of his neck wouldn't subside, how his tongue stuck to his palate like a giant chewing gum. He couldn't help but wonder if, maybe, he should have given this better thought.

Maybe he should have listened to his son, should have researched this better. Another month - maybe the wolf wouldn't have taken another victim, after all. Maybe…

Yeah, maybe.

But it wasn't an option, never had been one. John wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to some innocent man or woman. And Dean wouldn't want that, either. If he'd have thought this through, he wouldn't ever have suggested it. John might not know much about his son, but he knew this much. Dean wouldn't risk some innocent life, not to keep himself safe, not to keep his father safe, either. Sam had always been the only risk-factor for Dean, the only one he'd have thrown all his principles overboard for without as much as thinking about it twice.

But Sam wasn't here now and if it was up to the kid, he never would be anymore. A life without hunting. John could hardly remember how it felt, anymore. Dean had never known that kind of life, the four years before Mary…it didn't count. He'd been too little back then, too young to come to cherish it and it certainly had been too short a time for him to count.

In a way, John understood Sam's urge to try out this life that he'd only ever known from narrations, from the little snippets of memories Dean had shared with his little brother, and whatever he'd seen when being at friend's houses or watching some soap opera on TV. He wanted to be able to give his sons that life, wanted for them to have a shot at normal. But, knowing what he knew…it probably wasn't going to happen, ever. The thought made his heart clench terribly inside his chest as the realization hit home that he'd condemned his boys to a life of endless war.

John drew in a trembling breath, trying to ease the pain burning up his throat, making it hard to breathe. He needed to get his head clear, needed to concentrate.

And then, as if on cue, all thoughts of remorse were ripped right out of him when suddenly the body of a big, silvery wolf stepped into the clearing in front of the ranger's station, it's snout lifted into the air, nostrils flaring, jowls slightly parted, showing an impressive set of pearly white yet razor-sharp teeth. It was barely ten feet in front of John, its muscular body carried by four long, sinewy legs, big paws barely making a sound as it walked on the soft mixture of moss and leaves and earth. Its ears were small and laid back against its head as it lifted its muzzle into the air, dragging in a deep breath, and John could hear the air swishing through its nostrils and down its throat, he sat so close.

He swallowed dryly, body tense as the index-finger of his right hand slowly slid along the metal body of his gun until it found the trigger, immediately fitting around the metal switch and molding itself to it. He took aim carefully, not allowing his hand to shake even though the pit in his stomach only seemed to grow, his brain realizing that something about the creature was off…was not what it was supposed to be. But somehow, the information never made it past that part of his brain that was responsible for processing it before forwarding it to his consciousness, didn't have the time to register.

At exactly the moment that John was about to take a breath before pulling the trigger and firing a round of silver into the wolf's chest, the beast suddenly stilled, frozen in mid-movement. Then its head whipped around lightning fast and piercing, amber eyes fixed onto John with a ferocity that made him flinch and stole all his breath away.

It was exactly that moment of doubt as he looked into the creature's eyes that was too much, that made him act too late.

John fired the gun and even manage to unload another round right into the werewolf's heart, or so he thought, but the creature wasn't fazed in the slightest and kept moving towards him, so he had to have missed. The wolf kept charging as John aimed again, but this time he didn't have time to fire anymore as the big, muscular body slammed into him and propelled him backwards with the force of a bulldozer. The gun was flung from his grasp and landing a couple of feet away from him. He heard a sickening crack as the back of his head collided with the rough bark of a tree, felt instant heat flood the back of his head and sneak down his back before the pain even registered.

The second last thing John could think of was how in heaven and hell he was going to ever face his son again and tell him that he'd been right about this, that John was indeed in way over his head.

The next and last thing that came to mind was that he wouldn't have to explain anything to Dean, as he felt sharp teeth rip through his jacket and bury themselves into the fleshy part of his forearm.

He wouldn't have anything left to explain at all.

Dean would find out the hard way that he'd been right all along.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_I want to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart for all the awesome support I've been getting so far. This is great, really, and my little 'episode' last week was the exception in this story so far. _

_I tend to get very emotional when I write, and the more intense the chapter gets... But I was totally blown away by all the wonderful and supportive reviews, and I do feel like an idiot now, but at the time I raelly was scared sh...less. But you helped me get over it so much more quickly than usual, when my insecurities hit me full force and straight in the gut! _

_I will get to answering all of you, I promise. To all those who reviewed anonimously - thank you so, so much. You guys all rock!!!_

_I had a little help with this chapter, onyl a part of it, unfortunately, which is only because I was too slow to get it all done and sent to Nalanzu, who found so many mistakes, it makes me wonder how you guys ever understood a single word I wrote here (I'm a little embarrassed, I gotta tell you, but I gave you fair warning, so you knew what you were getting yourself into.) I'm sure you'll be able to guess the part I had help with from the part I did by myself, even though I of course made some last minute changes even in the already beta-ed part, so all mistakes remain forever mine. _

_Please don't think that, just because I feel better about this chapter than the last, I don't still rely on your reviews to keep me going. _

_I hope you'll like this chapter and really, really hope to have you coming back for the next one again!_

_take care!_


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks so much to all those that reviewed last chapter - and all the chapter before that. I am forever deeply in your debt._

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my family in germany, who are having a very hard time right now and I hope that everything will turn alright again in the end. I might not be the praying type, but i'll put in a prayer for you!_

_to everybody else, please enjoy the next chapter - all mistakes you find you are welcome to keep, otherwise they'll sadly remain mine._

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 17**

Dean stumbled to a stop as he heard the shot blast through the still of the night, cutting through another tirade of self-doubt that had been running through his mind pretty much nonstop since he'd set out on this suicide mission.

He stopped moving for a second only, using the sound of the gunshot echoing from the trees to orient himself, to adjust his direction and then move onwards, renewed surges of both worry and fear once more helping him to block out his own weakness.

There was no thinking about pain or self-doubt or even anger at his dad any longer, for abandoning him to go on this hunt just now or for leaving him behind a long, long time ago already. He was almost thankful for the new focus, for something to take his mind off the absurdity of the task he'd sat out to finish.

The shot had been so close, Dean could basically smell the gunpowder still lingering in the cool night air, could hear the impact as the bullet hit something soft and wielding. He heard his father's grunt of angry disappointment and disbelief and only a moment later a second shot was fired.

By the time the second blast cut through the still of the night Dean was already throwing himself forward. He didn't care about being stealthy, as he otherwise would have, but being stealthy on crutches in a forest was pretty high up on the list of impossible things to accomplish. And Dean knew when to just stop trying the impossible.

He disregarded the angry heat sneaking down from his shoulder to his arm and straight into the tips of his fingers, the bolts of lightening shooting up his injured leg. His body was sending him clear enough signs that he was taking it too far, that he was overstepping his boundaries big time, but at the moment Dean didn't take notice of anything else but the need to move forward, to move…_movemovemove_.

He was so close – so damn close. To fail now would be even more of a mockery than if he'd stayed at the house, being angry at his father's distrust and feeling sorry for himself.

There was a quick explosion of movement between the trees in front of him, a flash of silver, a glint of metal quickly obscured by something coalescing with the moonlit night almost seamlessly. It looked like a shadow laying itself across what Dean could have sworn was the form of a woman, but as he simply blinked the image changed into the crouched form of a charging animal before the figure was once again swallowed by the foliage of trees.

Dean growled in frustration and pain, angry at himself, at his body to betray him at a time like this, when he really needed everything he had to give.

A groan of impact burst through the night, almost like the groaning of metal as two bodies collided, breath being expelled in a grunt simultaneously coming from both human and beast. Dean bristled inside, felt anger once again battle the overwhelming fear and rise to the surface as he heard an almost inhuman howl of pain that so clearly came from his father, it almost stopped Dean's heart right then and there.

He didn't know how he did it, but somehow he used the anger to push himself onwards once again and the next thing he knew he was past the last thick tree blocking his vision, his line of fire. Suddenly he stood in the middle of a small clearing, the crutches abandoned with his gun gripped in both hands. His aim was steady, not the slightest tremor betraying the panic that was boiling inside his head, his heart – hungry tendrils of fright snaking through his whole body.

His brain registered only the cold facts as he didn't allow himself to wallow in the horrifying sight in front of him.

His dad lay pinned against the broad trunk of a tree, head tilted at an odd angle, body almost completely obscured by the muscular body of a big wolf.

Its fur was silvery grey with a darker patch of almost black against its back, which was turned towards Dean. The thick hide stretched taunt over pointed shoulder blades, its broad back rippling as muscles twitched and rolled underneath its skin.

The wolf's head was down, lowered to be shielded by the animal's own body, but from the terrifying look of agony on his father's face Dean had a pretty good idea what the creature was doing. John wasn't aware of his son's presence, eyes closed tightly and teeth bared as he apparently fought a quickly losing battle against the wolf's strong jaws.

His left arm was ineffectually swatting at the creature's neck, fingers gripping yet slipping through the thick fur as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the beast's head away to free himself.

The sight was almost too much, almost managed to make Dean falter from more than just his own physical pain and weakness.

But at the last second he managed to cut off the thoughts of dread, forcing himself to not thing about what lay right before his eyes. He would finish this. He would. And then he'd find a way – any way – to make this right again. To make amends. To pay for his own shortcoming and failings.

"Hey" Dean shouted, as much to alert his dad to his presence as well as to lure the wolf away from its prey, make it move just that tiny bit to give Dean a clear shot and not hit his dad right along with the creature.

Luckily, it worked.

The wolf's head whipped around lightening-quick, accompanied by the sickening sound of his dad's groan as its vicious teeth were apparently torn from his body.

But the fast movement had another effect, one that had Dean blinking in stunned surprise as his head involuntarily whipped back at the sight.

As the wolf's head turned, it almost appeared as if its face was shifting – as if it was an overlying mask that wasn't fast enough to follow the movement. It looked almost like…like in one of those superimpositions – Sam had dragged him to an exhibition once - where you could see pictures of a face atop another one, the two different features bleeding together almost seamlessly. Sam had been fascinated, as usual, had _oohed_ and _aahed_ and had thus managed to pull Dean along with his enthusiasm just a little bit. But mainly Dean had been creeped out by the 'morphing' images, had seen in them the possible reality, the monsters lurking behind the art.

Just like now.

Like the face of the woman floating underneath the pointed snout of the wolf under the silvery light of the moon.

It wasn't so much the revelation that Dean suddenly recognized her face that stunned him into momentary inaction, but rather the implication of what it could mean. An implication still so deeply buried inside Dean's mind, he had no time to look for it, to grasp it. Not really. He hadn't come here with a clear enough plan on how to end this, other than to buy some time and make up a plan as he went along.

And since he still didn't have a real plan right this moment, he'd go with buying time for now.

The illusion was gone again so quickly, Dean would be forever left wondering if it was just a trick of his brain, a remnant of the vision – or another vision altogether that triggered the image, but he didn't have time to wonder about it.

She stood there, unmoving, her body turned towards him, still shielding John's body as if she was aware of the fact that he was the only thing keeping Dean from firing. Out of the corner of his eyes Dean saw his father slump down the trunk of the tree, crumbling in a graceless heap on the ground, but he couldn't let himself get distracted by it.

While his brain still processed the information, still defragmenting what he'd seen - a tingling sensation at the back of his head prodding him to remember, to _see_ - the beast charged and thus gave Dean the opening he'd needed and waited for.

All other thought ceased , every ounce of energy and concentration focused on that one shot, the shot that would matter right now. The shot that would keep his family alive.

The instant it was out of immediate line with his father, Dean fired.

It was a sick replay of the vision just half an hour or so before, like déjà vu – only that this time he didn't shoot the woman but the wolf that she'd turned into, sending the silver bullet straight into the beast's head. It did flinch, but it seemed more annoyed than hurt, merely blinking as the bullet buried itself right between its eyes.

Dean knew he would have to go for the heart, but he didn't have a clean shot, so he opted on slowing it down instead, getting the killing shot later. Besides, if the vision - and yeah, he'd just go with calling it a vision now – was anything to go by, a bullet to the heart would be as effectual as a pinch.

Dean was torn by the creature's appearance, the fact that the beast actually looked like a real wolf, not the human-like deformations he knew werewolves to look like, had seen them look like on more occasions than one already. The seed of a doubt that had been planted in him by the visions of the crow, the seed that had been growing steadily ever since was in full bloom now and still he was flailing, helplessly torn between what he thought was right and what he feared, more than anything, to be wrong.

The wolf's head whipped back just a little as the bullet hit, giving Dean a momentary glimpse of her neck but before he had time to get a clear enough visual of what he thought was a foreign object that lay hidden in the thick coat Dean seized the tiny opening in her stance without second thought

His next shot went straight to the beast's chest, but the bullet's impact, as Dean had half expected, didn't even slow the wolf down, which was the only thing Dean had been praying for.

Instead its movements remained fast, strong and sure, eyes fixed onto Dean with startling ferocity, the clear amber of its eyes seemingly the only color in the otherwise silvery night.

The bullets didn't work – at all - shattering the last ounce of hope Dean had had that he'd be able to end this quickly and efficiently, without any more casualties, his father and Dean himself included. It called for a change of tactics – and a pretty damn fast one.

Dean was a hunter, through and through, which was the only reason he reacted as quickly as he did in the end, even though his swiftness would prove to be too late, no matter what.

He let himself fall, trying to twist to the side as he did so, attempting to roll out of the line of attack. He fully intended on rolling himself over his shoulder, using the momentum of the movement to propel himself back to his feet again and use the distraction and hopeful confusion of the beast to his advantage. What worked against him, unfortunately, was the simple fact that his leg was hindering his every movement, his beaten and hurting body like a block of useless cement compared to his usual grace. And despite the very hard, _very fast _fall, Dean didn't even manage to reach the ground before the wolf was upon him.

He almost made it, but at the last moment the wolf dodged Dean's shoulder, throwing him off track and backwards, the rough bark of a tree biting through the layers of his shirt as his shoulder hit the trunk hard. For a second, Dean was left in a void, his head ringing and body screaming from the rough handling, old wounds fiercely protesting the violent abuse. He couldn't draw in a breath, his lungs not working properly, shrinking inside his chest to the size of a pea. It might have taken minutes, but when he managed to draw in a halfway decent breath now, Dean was sure he'd been just one second shy of suffocating.

He'd abandoned his crutches when finding his dad and the wolf, couldn't have used them now, anyways, even if he'd had the time and serenity to retrieve them. Which, clearly, he hadn't. And while he still had his gun tightly in his grip, Dean knew – hoped he knew – that it wouldn't do him any good at all.

The bullets hadn't worked.

But he was almost sure about how to handle it, hoped he had it all figured out.

Only a tiny little piece missing till now, and maybe it wasn't missing at all, was right there in his head and always had been. Maybe it was only due to the fact that Dean hadn't been able to discuss this with anybody – preferably Sam, or even dad or Bobby, that he hadn't figured it out earlier. But on a hunt, you more often than not didn't have the time to even think about some courses of action, didn't have the time to make plans but just act on instinct. Dad had drilled that into both of his sons with frightening insistence – there was a time for research, for pondering ideas and information- and then there was the time when you just had to go with your gut-feeling.

Sam had always been the quick-witted in the family, the fast thinker and quick learner, but Dean hadn't been too far behind.

Actually, Dean was pretty damn good at it, especially since he was missing his brother's backup. He'd had no other choice but to adapt, like always.

Dean had spent hours trying to decipher the message his presumed spirit-animal had tried to send him and had come up empty time and time again. But now that he had no time left anymore, all the information suddenly gathered and melted into what Dean hoped would turn out to be the right conclusion.

Because he didn't have time for a second try here.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

The wolf had been thrown off Dean as it had attacked, bouncing off his shoulder and crashing into the underbrush at Dean's back. But it wasn't staying down, and Dean barely had time to brace himself.

He acted against his every instinct and dropped his gun, ignoring what had been ingrained into his very being since he'd been old enough to carry his brother out of a burning house that ate away his childhood.

_Never let go._

_Your life depends on it – your _family's_ life depends on it._

But he was letting go now.

The gun hit the leave-covered ground with a dull thud that sounded eerily like a heartbeat just as the wolf's low, gravelly growl reached Dean's ears, the sound emanating from only inches to his left.

Dean closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds around him, drawing up the picture that had somehow ingrained itself into his brain, seemingly imprinted into his memory since he'd first seen it.

The pieces of the puzzle falling into place – the moment of truth drawing closer.

He would be about to find out if he'd gotten the last piece right.

All he had to do now was to wait for the right moment – the moment to make it count.

And if he was wrong…well…there'd be nobody left to look for him anymore. By the time Sam realized that they were missing – if he ever did in the first place - they'd be long gone, rotten and probably haunting this stretch of forest together with the creature they'd failed to kill.

Dean drew comfort out of the fact that he'd talked to Sam just today, had heard his voice again and made sure his little brother was as alright as he could be. A new apartment, probably even a nice girl to go right along with it. Stressed out about some papers and tests he'd do absolutely great at – but Sam needed to fret. It was in his nature.

At least they had talked – and had parted on civil terms. No fights, no harsh words. And, if Dean was just a little bit lucky, Sam would never find out that not only their father, but his big brother had lied to him too. Because, if he ever did find out…Dean had no doubt that Sam would find him, even dead, and make him pay for it.

The air around him shifted as Dean could feel the wolf's movement like tiny ripples of static charging the night-air, making it possible for him to follow her slow, lurking trail along the leaf-covered ground. Like a bat, almost, using ultra-sound hearing. Hell yeah, he had always known he was freaking batman. But the humor was lost even on Dean as he felt the wolf's presence, the slightest soft of air brush over his skin, as the thick, mossy carpet underneath her feet made the animal's gait almost soundless, as if attempting to swallow her existence.

Dean was acutely aware of the absence of all other sound around him but the beating of his own heart as well as another beat, a faint, yet almost palpable vibration that shifted the air, helping him keep track of the creature that slowly moved in on him once more.

He felt the exact moment when she stopped, the fine hair on the back of his neck rising and breaking loose a trail of goose bumps that shifted down his spine, chilling the exhaustion- and probably fever-heated skin with tiny tremors of freezing cold.

When he opened his eyes again, the wolf was right in front of him, its snout merely inches from Dean's face, watching him with a weird mixture of unabashed interest and pure, seeping hunger. It was a look no animal would ever be able to portray, no animal being able to express loathing_ hatred _in this absolute, complete way. Animals didn't hate, they acted on instinct, to ensure the survival of their kin, their pack, themselves. They fought over their mates or to protect their offspring or for the simple and primal reason to feed, but they never, ever killed just for the fun of it, for the simple act of _killing._

For a second or a minute or an eternity Dean looked into the deep, amber eyes and stopped breathing, stopped existing. He could see the creature for what it really was, saw past his own pale reflection staring back at him and see _her_. She stood in a sliver of moonlight, half her face in shadow, the other illuminated by a silver ray of light. A wolf's eyes – a wolf's body. A perfect imitation.

Too perfect.

It was a moment of peace in an otherwise screaming war raging inside Dean's head and all around him.

A moment of silence.

Slowly, her flews drew up into a snarl that almost looked like a smile.

And then she charged.

OoOoOoO

After the crack to his head, there was darkness.

Darkness usually brought silence, or that was at least what the general consensus about what night and soothing blackness should feel like, but John found that creed totally and utterly wrong. On the contrary – there was a war raging inside his head – like one of Dean's cassette-tapes turned up way too loud, giving John a splitting headache that he wouldn't be able to get rid of for days.

John wanted to shake himself, wanted to tune down the noise running havoc inside him, shut it off. He'd never been able to concentrate well when distracted by too much noise, by music or mere talking. It had been one of the reasons he might have been pretty strict with his boys when they'd been younger and John had had to research, the two of them laughing or playing or watching TV, totally shooting his concentration to hell. He sure as hell had been hard to handle at times, John mused.

But right now there was nobody there to scold for the distraction but himself, no one to blame.

No one at fault but himself.

John had no idea what exactly had gone wrong, why or how he'd missed his mark, how he'd managed to end up being torn to shreds by a werewolf, never to return again.

…never to find his Mary's killer.

…never to see his boys again.

…leaving behind his injured son.

A couple of days, hell, just a mere hour ago John had sworn himself to be there for Dean, to sit this out with him. To give his son back some of what they'd lost.

Great job he'd done here.

John didn't fear dying, not really, he had always known that it would come to this one day.

He _did_ regret not being able to set some things straight before he left, though.

The wolf had buried its teeth into the fleshy part of his right forearm, the bite probably not too deep, considering he'd worn his thick shirt and padded jacket. But John still was coherent enough to know that even the most shallow scratch would be enough to seal his fate. The thought almost was enough to have John simply curl up and await the end. And if the wolf didn't end it, didn't do it for him, John would take his gun and…

_NO! _

No, he wasn't going to give up. Not like this, not…_not like this_. The thought that Dean would come looking for him when John didn't return, coming to look for him – in his condition – finding him…

No, it wasn't an option.

First, he'd have to finish this hunt, no matter the cost. He had to finish it before somebody else got hurt – or worse.

John faintly became aware of the wolf letting go of his arm all of a sudden, the vicious, yet soundless attack halting as quickly as it had begun. Through the noise in his head John thought he'd heard a voice – could have sworn it was his son's voice – Dean's – knowing that it was just his mind playing tricks on him, his conscience wanting him to keep fighting and using the only incentive John was susceptible to.

But, mind-trick or not - it worked.

John tried to roll away from the tree he'd been slammed against, rolling to his right, knowing the gun would have to be to that side somewhere. He cursed himself for having dropped it - after everything he'd drilled into his sons about always, _always_ holding on to their weapons, no matter what, he really should have done better.

Before he knew it, he was lying on his side, eyes still closed but his head spinning completely and totally out of control, the world a rollercoaster that made him want to puke his guts out. His hand blindly groped at the leaf-covered ground in front of him, searching, hoping against all odds to find his gun, to be granted this one little bit of luck.

Finally John managed to open his eyes despite the pure and utter agony it brought to him, and when he managed to make out more than blurred shapes and superimposed colors thorough the slits of his squinting lids, he thought his heart would stop dead in his chest.

Right there, only a couple of feet away from him on the other side of the clearing stood Dean. Stood there on his own two legs, which was enough to make John doubt his own eyes, made him think he was imagining it all. Like he was seeing the last thing on this planet that he hadn't managed to push away, that he hadn't lost yet.

But then John saw the wolf, the hideously animal-like form of the werewolf standing right in front of him, right between himself and his son and he knew that it was all real. The beast was now facing his son, and even though John could only see the wolf's back, he thought he could see its stance reflected in his son's beaten body – both of them poised and ready, waiting for the right moment.

The instant the wolf started to charge towards his son John screamed. All sound was still muted, reaching his ears like through layers of cotton, giving the whole scene a terribly surreal appearance.

John immediately tried to get up and run towards Dean, but his body, try as he might, refused to follow his brain's commands, his balance completely shot and he just ended up falling again, hitting the ground hard and with a frustrated shout of pain.

He might have thrown up, his head feeling as if it might split open at every single movement, at even the tiniest change in elevation. But he kept his eyes open, trained intently on his son as if simply looking at him would make him stay there, would keep him alive.

John didn't hear the shots Dean fired, his ears still clogged effectively, but he could see the way Dean's body jerked with what could only be the backlash of the trigger being pulled. He thought he saw the fierce look of concentration that wasn't even marred by the tiniest bit of doubt or fear, even as the wolf just kept on charging towards Dean.

Dean had always been a good shot – an excellent shot – maybe even the best damn shot in their whole family. He'd been the one that had started to train at the youngest age, that had the most practice, after all. There was no way he could have missed.

No way.

And still the wolf kept on coming.

Within seconds that felt strangely like slow-motioned eternity the wolf had reached Dean, still seemingly unfazed by the silver bullets John was sure his son would have loaded his gun with. It slammed into Dean's shoulder just as he apparently tried to drop and roll himself away, catapulting his body backwards and against a tree.

The animal had been too fast, had put too much strength behind its attack and with a growl of satisfaction John realized that it had miscalculated its momentum and pounced off Dean's shoulder and was thrown into the underbrush at his back, momentarily disappearing out of sight.

John once again tried to push himself to his feet, vision doubling and tunneling at an incessant pace as his brain fought the change in elevation with all its might. At least, he was on his hands and knees now, shuffling forward a little.

The wolf was back so fast, there wasn't any time to act – for neither John nor Dean.

Dean must have lost his gun – John couldn't see it in his son's hands anymore. He leaned against the tree he'd been thrown against, propped up like a puppet with his legs in front of him, arms lax at his sides, his eyes closed, as if he was waiting. But despite the outward sense of almost unnatural calm, there was still some sense of…alertness about him, a faint, underlying layer of tension that would have been undetectable to anybody who didn't know Dean for who he really was.

But John knew his son, knew his how to read his physical signs as far as his son allowed him to, at least. Dean was trying to appear off his guard, giving the creature a fake sense of security. Inside, though, he was bristling, bracing himself.

While John still tried to move himself forward he felt a tug of pride that mixed inexplicably with the uttermost, most terrible sense of fear, twisting his insides into knots so tight and thick, they seemed to fill his entire being.

The werewolf hadn't bitten Dean yet, right? Dean still had a fighting chance. Because this – this picture of utter calm and recklessness – it usually emerged when Dean didn't give a damn anymore. It was Dean asking for trouble because nothing else mattered.

John had seen this side of his son frighteningly often after Sam had left. Outwardly, Dean had remained calm and composed, being the rock to balance out John's outrage and anger and unreasonable behavior when he hadn't known how else react to the utter feeling of loss and pain and abandonment he'd felt.

Dean had remained the voice of reason, while he'd probably felt just as terrible, just as much as punching somebody or someone. But he'd compensated for his composure every time they'd gone on a hunt, throwing himself in the way of danger even more recklessly than ever before, asking for trouble to come and get him, almost. More than once John had feared for his son's life when the situation had seemed out of control, more than once they'd gotten into an argument about Dean's out of control hunting-habits, lately. So far he'd gotten lucky – or really had everything under control, like he'd always claimed - until that fateful night about a month ago.

And this now…it was a frightening accumulation of all those times when Dean had laughed in the face of death. As if he didn't have anything left to live for anymore.

No doubt had Dean seen how his father had been bitten, had surmised that John was lost – dead already. But Dean still had a chance. He still had a chance to kill the beast and walk away from this, not unscathed and well, but alive. One of them still had a goddamn chance…

John pushed himself to all fours again, determined to reach his son and tell him to not sacrifice himself for nothing, to keep on fighting. That he still had reason to live, despite all the shit life had thrown his way.

He needed…

The wolf's fur almost sparkled in the faint ray of moonlight as the animal gracefully stepped back into the small clearing, it's movements fluid, stance low, its shoulder blades moving sharply against the thick fur of its back. Its ears were pricked forward, eyes completely focused on Dean, its tail straight and rigid while the tip twitched in a nervous, anticipatory rhythm. It was as if the creature was completely unawares of John's presence, entirely zeroing all its attention on its current prey.

For a moment, it stopped, right in front of Dean. John couldn't be sure, but he thought his son's eyes were open, but then his vision swam again and he was once again spinning, hands splaying wide to keep himself from falling. As he dripped his chin for a second to get himself under control again, he caught sight of something glinting on the ground in front of him, partly hidden by a patch of leafs.

John instinctively reached for it and missed, shuffling forward a little more, fingers slipping off the cool silver of the guns muzzle several times before his muscles seemed to be able to process the information his brain was sending their way, finally able to latch onto his weapon.

He looked up just in time to see the wolf take a step forward, saw it lower its head and draw up its muzzles and while John still wasn't able to hear clearly he thought he felt the growl as it reverberated through the soft earth and snaked its way right into John's wide splayed hands.

For another second nothing moved, the scene like a picture but then there was no way John would have been able to _not_ hear his own scream as saw the wolf shoot forward with vicious speed, its teeth burying themselves unforgivingly and deep into Dean's shoulder.

John choked on his own cry of unabashed panic, scrambling forward, suddenly not caring to be stealthy or careful anymore. All he wanted to do now was kill, his vision going red as he saw his son's life flash before his eyes, saw the child he'd been and the man he'd become far too quickly.

He was about to propel himself to his feet, vertigo and nausea be damned, when, to his utter horror and disbelief, he saw his son reach up and sneak his right arm around the wolf's neck. But he didn't try to wrestle it away, didn't try to choke it or break its neck or ram a knife into its flesh.

He held on tight as if embracing it, drawing it closer in an almost intimate gesture, even.

He was crushing the wolf's head closer against his own body and held on tight.

OoOoOoO

"Dean…NO!"

Dean lay in an almost intimate embrace with the wolf, his left arm hanging limply at his side while the right one snaked across the wolf's neck, seemingly pinning it to his own body. He buried his face into the wolf's thick fur, tilting his head so his mouth lay right next to the creature's ear. As if he was talking to it – whispering.

John shook his head repeatedly, trying to rid his head of the fuzzy feeling, trying his hardest to be able to hear again while at the same time adjusting his hold on his gun, struggling to his feet.

The world wouldn't stop spinning around him, fireworks of rainbow colors bursting all across his vision.

He barely was able to keep standing, but barely would have to be enough.

"Hey!" John shouted, and it was as if his ears popped open all of a sudden, like they always did when he was flying or going up a skyscraper in an elevator. The sudden surge of sound that penetrated his ears and made him want to cover them, press his hands against them to fend off the nauseating cacophony of noises assaulting his brain.

And then, right before his eyes, the wolf crumbled.

Its huge body went rigid, an almost violent tremor raking through its strong frame before it suddenly went lax, collapsing on top of Dean in a boneless heap, its head still propped against his shoulder.

Within merely seconds, it was over.

John blinked in irritated surprise, unsure of what to make of it, thinking that maybe he'd imagined it, after all. There had to be something…Dean hadn't shot it, had he? Not just this moment, at least, because his gun still wasn't anywhere in Dean's hands and John himself hadn't fired his gun either.

And the wolf hadn't even bled, hadn't been fazed at all by the gunshots before…

"What the…?"

John took another stumbling step forward, found his knees like rubber, felt as if the earth was tilting and tipping as he walked on very unsteady legs towards his son's fallen body.

Everything was deadly silent once more, an almost too stark contrast of the raging noise inside John's head just moments ago, and he thought something might have been wrong with his hearing after all, that hit to the head even harder than he'd though. But then the low, gravely sound of his son's groan of pain reached his ears and made it all real again.

Too real.

"Dean…" his voice was barely a whisper, a raspy, choked out cry as he hauled his uncooperative body forward, tripping at the last step and hitting the ground next to Dean hard, his knees cracking against a stone or twig laying on the ground. His eyes widened impossibly, breath getting stuck in his throat as he took in his son…his bleeding son's body…

…and the clear imprint of teeth-marks on the side of his neck and shoulder standing out starkly against too pale skin.

OoOoOoO

Dean sat perched up against the trunk of a broad tree with his cast-covered leg stretched out in front of him. His head was tilted backwards, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat. His eyes were open yet unfocused, unblinkingly staring into the night sky that peeked down at them from between the heavy tree-tops above them. If it wasn't for the rapid fluttering of a pulse beneath the sweat and blood-slicked skin on his throat, John would have though he was dead. His right hand still was tangled into the thick fur of the wolf, now limp against his chest, still holding the head of the beast in a desperate death-grip.

The wolf wasn't moving, looked positively dead.

Its eyes dull and lifeless, tongue lolling out from the side of its muzzle.

For an agonizing second John stared at his son, rooted to the spot mere inches away from him, yet unable to reach out and touch him.

For a second or a minute or an hour, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't blink as he took in Dean's green eyes – the eyes of his mother, staring past John through space and time. And just when he was about to break down sobbing, he saw heavy lids lowering, then raising up again, slowly and sluggishly, sweat-weighed lashes fanning tiny droplets of moisture down his son's too pale cheeks.

John took a shuddering breath, his tongue dry as kindling as it stuck to his palate.

"Dean…"

Dean swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, throat working soundlessly for a moment or two before he rolled his head against the bark of the tree, turning towards him and finally meeting his father's eyes.

John was momentarily thrown by the look of pure and bone-deep exhaustion that met him. He swallowed hard, saw Dean blink again, saw the corner of his mouth tick up as if he was attempting a smile that didn't quite manage to break through his beaten exterior.

"Hey…"

"Hey." John replied dumbly, unsure how to proceed, what he could possibly say to make this all better.

But Dean beat him to it.

"Uhm, dad…you'll be glad to hear…I think I'm really over…that wish…for a dog, finally…" he said, one side of his mouth drawing up in a lopsided smirk that fell again far too quickly.

John didn't think he'd ever been more happy to hear his son smart mouth him as he was right this second and he wanted to laugh, wanted to sob…to do anything but sit here and think about their fate – Dean's fate.

Another wave of dizziness hit him, and he slumped down ungracefully onto the ground, having to use both his arms to brace himself against the ground to keep himself from falling completely.

No matter how you looked at it…no matter that Dean was still alive – that John was still alive – they were both dead, anyways.

John had come too fucking late – had failed to save at least his son the gruesome fate that he'd already been willing to accept for himself if it meant he could spare his son.

John reached for the wolf's carcass, pulling at the limp body until it finally slipped out of Dean's grasp, who closed his eyes with a groan as the beasts teeth were pulled roughly from his wounds. The body draped across his legs, and John gave it one last shove, pushing it off his son's body, almost sending himself sprawling with the motion.

His head just wouldn't stop spinning…

Nobody said a word, John's mind a sudden, total blank as he thought about what to do, about the possibilities. Maybe, if he got holy water, right now…. If he could clean the wounds, wash all the saliva out… It wasn't too late, there still had to be something he could do. The wound was fresh, too fresh to already seal Dean's fate.

There had to be something…anything. He had to call Bobby, had to call Jim. Had to call everybody he knew - _everybody_. This wasn't over – it wasn't over. He wouldn't let this happen, he _wouldn't_.

John still was oblivious to his son's strangled groan of barely suppressed pain as he clutched Dean's shoulders, digging numb fingers into the deep punctures before drawing Dean closer roughly, almost brutally, inspecting the other set of teeth-marks on the back of his son's neck and shoulder. Sick, almost mirror images to the barely healed bite-marks from the black dog.

This wasn't happening. _It wasn't happening._

He wasn't going to lose Dean, not now, not ever and certainly not like this.

He'd broken one of his own goddamn rules, had gotten careless, distracted by "bigger" things. He'd lost his goddamn focus and now…

"Dad…"

The choked sound of Dean's voice against his chest only had John hold on more tightly, had him smash Dean's face against his shoulder, hands balled into fists, pulling him close. He pressed his hands against the deep puncture wounds at the juncture between Dean's neck and shoulder to stench the blood flow - his whole body rigid to the point where he was sure it would break apart any second.

John was oblivious to his own injuries, the thought that he himself was in the same damn predicament not even occurring to him at the moment.

How could he ever live with this? How could he…but he wouldn't have to live with it, right? He'd be dead himself, doomed by the same fate as his son. And he couldn't allow that to happen…

"Dad…please. You gotta…you're hurting me man…"

John was almost immobilized by his own fear, head spinning in circles not only because of the no doubt pretty impressive concussion he'd obtained, lungs working to draw in air yet failing to accomplish the task.

What was he supposed to do now? _What was he supposed to do?_

"Dad…let off …"

John felt Dean's hand clamp up in his own shirt at his back, felt his son fist the material tightly in his grasp as he tried to pry John loose, tried to get him away.

Dean probably didn't know yet, hadn't yet come to realize what it meant.

He had no idea…

"I'm so sorry…so sorry." John whispered, as he rested his chin on top of his son's head, wanting nothing more than to hold him, forever, never to let go again. He reveled in the heat emanating from Dean's body, the stifling dampness seeping through his clothes. This was all too familiar, the same damn feeling of helplessness as he'd felt only weeks ago, searching for his son in a field of wheat, knowing that his time was running out. What made it worse now, though, was the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to save Dean, nothing at all.

He let go of Dean reluctantly, letting his son's body sink back against the tree, afraid to meet the bright green eyes, always so intently trained on him, eyes that used to never question him, that looked at him right now as if he was going to make it alright again.

And god, did John want to make it alright.

"It bit you, son." He ground out between clenched teeth, unable to meet Dean's gaze as his own eyes swept down his son's body down to the broken leg and back up again, latching onto the bloody, oozing wounds.

"I was too late…I…I didn't see it – don't know how it got the drop on me. I was distracted, had my head on something else… I should have…"

He choked on the next words, had to avert his gaze completely, eyes finding the body of the wolf that still lay motionless next to them.

"We'll figure something out…" he offered, quietly, trying unsuccessfully to add conviction to his voice yet failing miserably.

"Dad…no. Listen."

"No, Dean. Don't you goddamn argue with me on this one. We'll figure something out. There's no…there has to be a cure, somewhere – a way to reverse this. We'll find a way. We'll go to Bobby…he has like a million books on this. There has to be _something_ we can do. This isn't over yet."

John had to brace himself against the ground again, the dizziness almost knocking him off his feet pairing up with a relentless, sharp stabbing that emanated from what he was sure was an impressive gash on the back of his head. Maybe his skull was cracked, even – it sure felt like it – but it was an insignificantly small problem considering what else they were dealing with.

"Dad, just listen…"

"Dean, there's no discussion. I'm gonna get you to the Impala and we'll be at Bobby's in no time and…"

"Would you goddamn shut up and listen to me, just once?" the ferocity in Dean's voice left John dumbstruck for a moment, the force and determination shutting him up out of surprise alone.

He looked up to meet his son's eyes, pitch black pupils surrounded by a thin ring of bright green, eyes suddenly mere inches from John's face as Dean pulled himself up and closer towards his father with his right hand twisted tightly in John's shirt. He was panting hard, lips flattened against his teeth, nostrils flaring as he fought to draw in each breath, expelling them in too much of a rush, his body trembling from effort and pain.

"Just…goddamn listen for once, dad."

John closed his eyes and dipped his chin low, sucking in a big, painful gulp of air. Then he nodded, swallowing hard, steeling himself. He owed that to his son, didn't he? He owed it to at least look him in the eye and hear him out.

"Alright, alright. I'll listen."

"Good...about time. Because…this thing, it bit me alright…but it wasn't a damn werewolf…"

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I really hope you liked this chapter - I am a teeny bit nervous, as usual. I know you might think I've started a whole different kinda story here, but this was actually the way it was planned from the beginning - believe me. I hope you see the common thread by the time I wrap this up, and I hope that already you can see my intentions with this fic. I told you that it wasn't solely a case-fic. (I don't make sense right now, do I?) well, I'm doing my best to keep this interesting enough, as free of mistakes as possible, and not too amateurishly written, if possible. A big task, but I do enjoy trying._

_As usual, I'll need your support to keep going without bashing myself sensless, so, you know how to make me feel better about myself, right?_

_To all those that reviewed anonymously, or added the story to their favorites (I think you even topped Drowning already...) I want to thank, if not in person then right here. _

_And everybody else - you know how happy your reviews make me. so, thanks for making me a very happy woman indeed!_

_i'm going to watch the last two episodes of SPN now - and i'm super excited, but I'm also nervous about how it's going to end and I have a feeling I won't be happy about it - am I right? No, don't tell me. i'll find out soon enough!_

_Hope to see you all again next week._

_till then, take care!_


	18. Chapter 18

_I know I'm late posting this, and if it helps, I do feel terrible about it. _

_Maybe some of you know the feeling - I spent about a week working really hard on this chapter, and then I was done and was reading through it 'one last time', and found that I wasn't happy with it. It wasn't like I didn't 'like' it, but I didn't think the pacing was right, and there were some sentences that needed rephrasing and stuff like that._

_I care about this story way too much to just get a chapter out there for the sake of it, so I decided to take a step back and have a fresh go at it - after a day or two I opened the document again, and suddenly everything became so much clearer (at least to me. you be the judge if it's actually clearer for the reader as well)._

_So, I hope you can forgive me for the delay, and that you like this chapter the way it is. _

_Here it goes, I hope you enjoy:_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 18**

John knelt in front of the wolf's body, which still lay sprawled on the forest floor like a carelessly discarded toy.

It didn't look so hideous now, didn't look all that dangerous. It just looked like any living creature did in death, really - looked downright pitiful, harmless, almost like it didn't deserve whatever had happened to it, even though John knew different.

God, did he know.

The fact that the creature hadn't turned back into its human form after being killed spoke in favor of Dean's theory, served to strengthen the suspicion, the hope that this indeed wasn't a werewolf like John had thought.

It could mean that their fates weren't sealed yet, at least not today.

But John still was reluctant to believe, even though it wasn't his son's judgment that he mistrusted, it was simply caution - precaution. And maybe, just maybe there _was_ a tiny hint of mistrust mixed in there somewhere, a tiny part of John that believed his son to be capable of lying to him about this. Lying to him to spare him the responsibility, to save John from having to kill his own son.

Because, no matter how little he seemed to apparently know about his eldest, he knew one thing for sure - Dean would rather go and take matters into his own hands if it meant sparing his father or brother the heartache and guilt.

To be on the safe side, John had to make sure of this himself.

He had to make certain Dean had been telling the truth before the kid had himself up and under control again, before he could move to stop his father. And, so god help him, if Dean was lying to him about this…

John tore his eyes away from the wolf's body and looked up, fighting stomach-churning nausea as he did so, his eyes taking a long time to finally focus across the carcass and towards the other side of the clearing, searching for his son.

He caught sight of him close to the tree-line a couple of feet away where he was walking, chin jut forward almost defiantly, daring the world to make him break now, it seemed. His left leg was lightly bent at the knee so the cast did not touch the ground, his right leg scraping over the forest floor whenever he hauled himself forward as he apparently hardly had the strength left to lift even his good leg anymore.

Dean wasn't aware of his father's eyes on him, seemed to need all his strength and willpower to keep himself on his feet and moving. Walking over the rough terrain of a forest couldn't be easy, not even when not physically beat to hell and certainly not in Dean's current condition.

Watching him drag himself onwards, his body devoid of the usual grace, the usual confident swagger felt like a kick in the guts. John had to swallow hard, had to work with everything he got to not turn his eyes away and drop them with the guilt that was coursing through him with the force of a goddamn tsunami. But he couldn't look away now. He had to look, had to make sure…had to make sure Dean wasn't going to disappear on him, maybe. Wasn't going to walk past that tree there, right in front of him, and never come out of its shadow at the other side.

Just like Mary had – gone within the blink of an eye.

With Sam, it hadn't been so subtle, only John had been too stubborn to see it at the time, to believe that his youngest would actually take that final step and walk out on him, out on them.

It made him fear now that, maybe, John hadn't really paid close enough attention to his eldest either in the last couple of months or even years. He had no idea how close to the edge Dean truly was – maybe had been _before_ the incident with the black dog, even.

Choosing this time to start watching him, start evaluating every move, every tick of his face, every shift of his features was probably not the right moment to do so, though. John didn't think he'd ever seen Dean so close to his breaking point, ever before. Not after that banshee had thrown him down three flights of stairs at the age of 12, not after being laid up for weeks with a ruptured spleen and a punctured lung, courtesy of an especially vengeful spirit.

Not even after Sam had left.

But the pain – it had been building gradually over the course of the past months, John realized now, had stripped away his son's defenses little by little and left him almost bare before either of them had figured out what happened.

This now…it had to be the end of it, they had to find a way to stop it, or else John doubted that there'd be anything left of his son before long.

Dean stopped briefly as he reached the tree John had hidden behind when stalking what he'd thought to be the werewolf. John watched him just stand there, eyes closed and chin jut forward in stubborn denial of his own weakness, lips pressed tight against his teeth, nostrils flaring dangerously. He was swaying on his feet – his foot – and even from this far a distance John could easily make out the death grip he had on his crutches, the visible tremor shaking his body to the core. The trail of blood that snaked down his left arm to lazily drip from his knuckles seemed as if illuminated, almost like the only color on in a world faded to black and white.

He had to be in pain – so much more pain than before, even, his old injuries no doubt having suffered severely from the new assault. And then, of course, there was the new bite-wound in his shoulder. The wound wasn't life-threatening, if this truly hadn't been the work of a werewolf, but it was deep and ugly and it had been bleeding pretty profusely. But Dean had refused to let John have more than a cursory look at it, insisting that they wouldn't be able to stitch it up properly anyways, so it might as well wait until they made it back to the safe-house. He had accepted the makeshift bandage John had fashioned out of his own button-down which he'd put on with clumsy hands to slow the bleeding for the moment at least, but other than that all of John's attempts to keep his son down and resting had fallen on deaf ears.

They would have to get the first aid kit to accomplish anything worthwhile, anyways, and that – yeah – was still all the way across the clearing, tucked away in John's duffel.

The wound on John's arm was nothing, merely a scratch as he'd been saved from any deeper penetration of the beasts teeth by the thick fabric of his jacket. It probably wouldn't even need more than a couple of stitches, if any at all. But John's head was still an issue, even though the gash on the back of his head had stopped bleeding almost entirely. Dean had been adamant to take care of it, though, to have a whatever cursory look at it before they did anything else, let alone haul ass out of this forest.

No matter how they turned it, they had to get John's duffel.

John's orders for his eldest to stay down, to let his father handle it had ended up with John sprawled on the ground, Dean leaning over him as the kid had somehow managed to catch his father's fall despite his own ailing body. The concussion was messing with John's head big time, and no amount of self-discipline and ordering his own head to stop spinning made any difference, in the end. His brain seemed to want to liquefy inside his skull whenever he simply blinked. He'd pretty much puked his guts out just trying to get onto his knees just now…

So Dean had gone to get the duffel.

And John had ended up watching his severely injured son shuffle around on his crutches, attempting to finish this hunt that he shouldn't even have been on in the first place.

What an awesome father he had turned out to be…

John watched Dean suck in a deep breath, watched in almost morbid fascination as his son straightened, pulling his good shoulder back a little, smoothing out the frown that folded his forehead and lifting his chin ever so slightly. When he opened his eyes and turned towards his father, John was stricken by the naked _pain_ he saw in those eyes that once had been the most familiar companions, the most faithful observers but had somehow turned into carefully hidden depths of deeply concealed need, lately.

John immediately and automatically averted his own gaze, unable to see, to deal right now. Looking for an escape, something else to look at but his own son, he once again found the body of the wolf, laying eerily still only an arm's length in front of him.

Right…right. He had to make sure… it was his responsibility to make sure, to not miss a thing now, because he'd done so freaking great at it so far.

John carefully shifted his weight until he was propped on his knees, ass on his heels, reaching out a slightly unsteady hand towards the wolf's lifeless form. His fingers brushed against the slightly coarse, dark grey collar that stood out against the animals otherwise light grey coat and he ran his hand along the beast's neck and up towards his skull, tilting the head a little further towards him.

Already the wolf's eyes were glazed over with death, but there was something else in them that had John wondering, that had made him pause before, when he'd first encountered it. Something about the eyes wasn't quite _right_. Werewolves usually had the eyes of their human creators - not the animal-like orbs that stared back at John now. Also their bodies usually weren't quite as wolf-like as this certain specimen was, were more of an abomination, a mixture between man and animal, their _origin_ still visible from both species.

Forever stuck in both worlds, held captive by evil and life.

But that alone wasn't proof enough.

He couldn't take this lightly just because he wanted it to be true more than anything else – because he _needed_ it to be true more than anything else.

Everything about the creature had been perfect, body and movement so much like an animal, John had been wondering for a moment if maybe he'd actually run into a real wolf. Like a first-class copy, a damn near perfect one. But a copy would always just remain a copy. If it hadn't been for the eyes…

Dean had given him nothing but a brief report of how he figured out it wasn't a werewolf they were dealing with.

The crow had shown him, he'd said, had shown him a woman changing into the body of a wolf, had recognized her from a picture he'd seen in the newspaper. He had shot her – in his vision – with silver bullets and she hadn't been killed. Which was what had given him the vital clue, in the end.

John still wasn't ready to believe his son's slightly evasive ramblings about a spirit crow and death-omens versus protective visions. It still sounded a little too hopefully unrealistic, a little too much like something Sam would come up with, if he was still with them. Searching for the good in everything before accepting the bad intentions behind the action.

For whatever reason, Dean's explanations had been clipped, almost. He'd offered John short, to the point answers to his questions, reporting back the bare necessities but hadn't offered anything on his own accord.

Maybe it was the simple fact that he was in pain and pretty much at the end of his strength, maybe it still was a vestige of their earlier disagreement– John walking out on his son despite his clear and open warning. Dean had been as close to pleading with his father as he'd ever been. And still John had walked away.

He had only been inclined to consider that his son might be right when Dean had mentioned the necklace he'd seen dangling from the wolf's neck right as it had been about to attack him. A woven leather cord holding a small leather pouch, a gleaming white tooth secured to the outside of the bag. Like a medicine-bag or hex-pack.

John wished nothing more than for Dean to be right about this.

Slowly, he ran his fingers through the animal's thick fur, reveling at the strange mixture between soft and coarse that brushed over his skin, barely resisting the almost hideous urge to start ruffling the hair like he would a dog's neck. Just like the German sheepdog-mutt Dean had had in tow one day when he'd been about 10, insisting that they keep it. Dean had been heartbroken to the point of John almost giving in and taking it with them when they'd handed the dog over to the local pound when they left town a couple of months later.

But the road was no place for a dog, and neither was the Impala's back seat.

After the first tears had dried Dean had dealt with it as he'd always had – quietly - and he'd never again expressed the wish for a dog, ever again.

The wolf was beautiful, no doubt, a graceful animal. And still it was a monster that had tried to kill both John and Dean, had killed at least 2 other innocent victims so far.

John gave himself a mental push, forcing his hand to keep moving, fingers tracing through the thick coat, feeling along the animal's rapidly cooling skin.

Searching.

He found what he was looking for, what he'd prayed to find, near the top of the wolf's neck, shoved up to rest in the thick yet fluffy fur right behind its ears.

A leather cord, soft and worn with age.

After a second of almost paralyzing inaction John used both hands to feel along the cord's length, finally giving up on trying to disentangle it from the thick fur it was entwined in and simply gave a hard yank, snapping it with a loud ripping sound. The wolf's body jerked once, then thumped back down again, muscles already going stiff with rigor mortis.

John had no time left to revel at the animal's beauty, didn't spare one second to care that his hands were most definitely shaking now, didn't care that he slumped back onto his ass ungracefully. He didn't care, because all that mattered was the small leather pouch in his hands, dangling from a softly woven leather cord. A large canine's tooth was sewn onto the front of the pouch, a small bundle of grey wolf's fur and some dried herbs tied together by a piece of string stuffed inside.

A witch's pouch.

The moment John ripped it off, the body of the wolf slowly started to morph back into the form of its human creator.

John weakly shuffled away from the body, teary eyes riveted to the sight in front of him.

But he couldn't, try as he might, feel the horror he should be feeling when looking at the person Dean had killed along with the creature. He couldn't, because as horrifying as the sight of her dead human body was, the small pouch John held clutched in his fingers was all that mattered at that moment.

It meant that they'd cheated death, once again, in the nick of time.

John turned from the sight of the now fully transformed naked body of a young woman, barely managing to bring a couple of stumbling steps between him and _her _before throwing up everything he had still left in his stomach.

But during it all he never let go of the little object that meant another chance, for both of them.

The pouch of a goddamn skinwalker.

OoOoOoO

"You gotta hold still. It's hard enough doing this in the dark…"

John shifted his shoulder on the trunk of the tree he was leaning against, his head held upright despite the fact he seemed to have a damn hard time sitting up straight. He kept tipping forward a little and Dean knew, despite the fact that he couldn't see his father's face from where he was sitting behind him that his eyes kept drooping, kept slipping closed against his will.

He had to have one hell of a headache and Dean sympathized, he really did, because he knew the damn feeling. His own body was a screaming mass of pain, but at least his head had been spared this time around, had not been hit or kicked or scraped or cracked.

Had to be a first.

Usually he'd be the one running around with more cuts in his scalp then a mole that had been run over by a lawnmower.

Dean brushed another handful of hair away from the gash on the back of John's head, trying his best to keep the stubborn locks glued away from the wound, using the sticky blood as a makeshift styling gel.

Too much goddamn hair – despite being so set on his marine-like mannerism in pretty much everything else he did, despite the fact that he kept everything else in his life in military order.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, right here..."

…_right behind you, as always._

John angled his face sideways, looking at Dean over his shoulder. His pupils were blown, his focus drifting a little, but at least he didn't pass out on the spot. Which was good – great. Would make it a hell of a lot easier for them to walk out of here once they were done.

"We gotta take care of it…" John said, pinning Dean with a stare that made him shift uncomfortably under the soft brown eyes that were familiar and foreign to him at the same time.

Dean realized that he wasn't used to his dad looking at him directly anymore, that lately he had been avoiding direct eye-contact with him – unconsciously or not.

Maybe they both had.

It took him a second to catch on, to focus his own drifting thoughts on John's words.

"We'll burn her later. Gotta take care of you first. Won't help if you fall flat on your face before we make it out of here." Dean offered quietly, leaving out the fact where there wasn't anything Dean would be able to do if his dad decide to actually do a face plant on him at any given time, really. There was no way Dean was going to be able to carry him out of here on his own.

He was glad that he was sitting behind his dad, even though he had to keep his body twisted at an awkward angle to get at the wound in the back of his head. But at least this position allowed him to keep his face hidden in shadow, more or less, to not let his father look at him too closely. He was unwilling to give away the exhaustion that just had to show on his features by now. He could basically felt the pull of sacking skin underneath his eyes, the utter weariness clouding his thoughts.

Every single muscle in his body was screaming for rest, the bone-deep exhaustion actually overlaying the pretty impressive blanket of pain already holding his body in a vice-like grip. Hell, his _hair_ hurt, and his whole body trembled like he'd been stuck in a freezer.

"I can't believe I didn't see it." John suddenly said, his voice a low whisper and Dean wasn't sure if the words were actually meant for him to hear – for anybody to hear but John himself.

"What are you talking about?" he asked carefully, not sure he wanted to be a witness to his father's concussion-induced confession. God knew he wanted his father to admit to being wrong, but he wanted John to be aware of every second of it, wanted him to know what he was admitting to and not be able to write it off as a product of his head-injury.

"The skinwalker – I can't believe I didn't see it." he repeated softly.

Dean swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat, closing his eyes momentarily.

As much as he wanted to hear this, he still couldn't help but feel bad at the defeat he heard in dad's voice. And he still couldn't help the feeling of betrayal blossoming inside his chest, the pain of only ever being listened to when it was already almost too late.

Dean used his right arm to push himself a little more upright, holding his left arm close against his side to keep the shoulder as immobile as possible and still he felt tremors of pain running down into the tips of is fingers like jolts of electricity.

He picked up another pack of sterile gauze, clumsily tearing it open with his teeth. He was hardly able to move the fingers of his left hand at this point and he had no idea how he was going to manage to walk with the aid of his crutches again later. But he'd make it – they'd make it. He refused to accept anything else.

Sam had told him to be unable to know when to quit, and maybe that Sam had gotten that one right when analyzing his big brother – even though right now Dean didn't feel like he'd be able to live up to his reputation at all.

Luckily, the gash in John's had had almost stopped bleeding, but John's hair was already matted by dried blood which had also soaked into his shirt and jacket, coloring the dark blue cotton to almost black.

John mumbled something again, something sounding like _should have known_, and Dean sighed, deciding to take pity on his father.

"Well, who would have thought that the witch would choose to slip into the skin of a wolf only to imitate the killing circle of a goddamn werewolf?" he supplied quietly, slipping so easily back into his accustomed role of a peacekeeper, always the one flattening the waves, trying to avert all traces of anger and conflict.

It wasn't right, and he certainly didn't feel as forgiving about it as he wanted his dad to believe – because Dean had told him. He had told him that something about this wasn't right but Dad had refused to listen.

And he'd almost gotten them both killed in the process.

But still Dean didn't find it in him to get into an argument now of all times, knew they'd both need all their strength and energy to make it out of here before they could even think about facing off.

John looked off towards the fallen body of the woman still laying splayed naked on the ground in the middle of the clearing, only John's jacket covering part of her nudity. Dean still refused to look too closely, tried his hardest to keep eyes and thoughts averted.

"So it's true." John said and it was a statement really, not a question.

"What's true?" Dean asked, pressing the gauze against John's scalp a little harder, feeling the tremor of his own fingers bouncing off his father's skull in a sickening beat.

"That skinwalkers can be killed if you call them by their real name."

"Oh… Yeah, apparently."

"And you knew hers…"

Dean sighed heavily. They'd been over this before. But maybe John just couldn't believe it, much like Dean himself had seriously doubted this mockingly non-violent resolution to such a decidedly violent problem.

"Saw her picture in the paper." He elaborated quietly.

John just nodded and Dean swallowed, collecting every available drop of moisture in his parched mouth to be able to keep talking. Already it got harder and harder to concentrate…

"I recognized her face from my…from the dream. Remembered her name because when I saw the article in the paper. Thought it was a weird coincidence that her name was that of a rifle too."

Dean left out the part where he himself hadn't been aware of the real meaning of his dream until it had almost been too late, almost all over. He hadn't even relayed that last encounter with the woman when he'd found the Impala and had been on his way into the forest already. All of that – it had been damn signs, all along. Just like Dean had suspected - feared. Just like Sam had told him.

But he had been too stubborn to believe, to trust his own instincts.

"You should have told me." John said and Dean felt the tendons in his own neck strain hard against his skin, muscles in his right arm suddenly coiling as he fought the urge to keep his hand steady and not dig his fingers right into his father's split scalp.

"Don't you think I would have, if I had known…if I'd been sure? And I did tell you. I told you that I had a bad feeling about this. But I probably could have screamed it right in your face and you wouldn't have listened, so damn eager to get away…"

…_from me_ – the last part of the sentence remained unspoken, but there was more than just those two little word that hadn't been meant to be spoken out loud, Dean realized too late. If it hadn't been for the fact that his hand was still on his father's head, holding him more or less in place, Dean was sure dad would have whirled around and faced him. Instead, John's shoulders drew back a little more, his posture straightening imperceptively as the open accusation slammed right into him like a physical blow without warning.

"I wasn't trying to get away…" he started, but Dean cut him off, calm but decisively.

"Well, it looked like it from where I was standing."

John fell silent again, as did Dean, but he proceeded with his one-handed ministrations, the tension like a tangible thing hovering between them in the cool night air.

Dean could feel his skin crawling, unsure if it was due to the anger boiling just beneath the surface or the fever he could feel building steadily inside him, slowly clouding his senses. The skin around his old sutures felt hot and tight, his leg hollow and filled with lead at the same time. They needed to get done here soon, get out of here.

Dean had come here to save his father, but he hadn't thought any farther ahead than that. There were still so many things left unsaid – things that had to get out in the open, had to be talked or else Dean didn't know how to go on. He had no idea how they could ever push past that giant elephant lurking in the corner, the disappointments and unspoken accusations that had accumulated over the past days or weeks, maybe even months.

"Don't know if this'll need stitches…" he finally mumbled, just to talk, to keep his dad alert, and hopefully himself from thinking too much, too.

"I'm fine." John said and Dean could feel his father slipping back into what he recognized as a familiar pattern, a Winchester family trait. Gearing up – assembling the bricks that would build up the walls again. Pretending to be fine when you were so far from alright that you had no idea if you would ever be whole again.

"Yeah, I bet." He said tiredly while dabbing at the last trails of fresh blood trickling down John's neck, pressing the gauze a little harder, eliciting a small hiss from his father.

"Look who's talking. You shouldn't even be here in the first place." John shot back, and his tone of voice mirrored Dean's almost to the cue.

"Yeah, right. I should have just sat back and let you walk away." Dean said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the sarcasm from sneaking into his voice.

"Yeah you should have." John said, way too quickly.

Dean bit back a remark to that, felt the tendons in his neck strain even farther as he pushed his jaw forward with stubborn determination.

He wasn't going to rise to the bait – not now.

Dean took another swipe at the split skin on John's scalp, concentrated all his energy on the task at hand. Patch up Dad and then get moving. Just the basics, nothing else.

As far as he could see, the cut was fairly long but not as deep as he'd feared. But his dad was right – they'd have to wait till they at least made it out of here before they could give it a closer look, determine if he _did_ need stitches or if maybe some butterfly-bandages would do.

A thick tress of John's hair came free, plastering itself over the freshly cleaned cut again and Dean cursed under his breath, trying to push it out of the way.

"Jesus…what's with the damn hair? Like a friggin' yeti. I swear, you and Sam…"

Dean bit the sentence off a tick too late, clamping his teeth shut with an audible click. If he could have he would have just up and run away as fast as…well…obviously not as fast as his legs could carry him. That certainly wouldn't amount to much at all.

John tensed at his words, Dean could see it in the curve of his neck, the rapidly beating pulse racing through that vein that started right behind his ear and that only ever stood out like this when his father was close to snapping but was lacking the words to express himself.

At the same time as Dean wanted to bash himself senseless for bringing Sam into the equation he wanted to scream out loud at the unfairness of not even being able to mention his own brother – _his own brother_ for crying out loud. They should be able to at least talk about him, shouldn't they?

They hadn't even so much as mentioned his name more than a couple of times ever since he'd left, not even in association with a fond memory, a recollection of the good times they'd had together. And there'd been plenty of good times, thousands of them. John just hadn't been there for most of them.

Neither of them said anything, each of them trying to pretend that it hadn't happened, that Dean hadn't just brought up the _wayward_ son.

The one that had _left_.

"You need to help me hold that…" Dean prompted quietly, his heart heavy but hoping to divert the attention away from his slip-up, to flatten the waves yet again.

Wordlessly, John's hand sneaked to the back of his head and he held the roll of gauze in place silently while Dean fumbled one-handedly to get out the surgical tape, ripping a couple of strips off with his teeth. He taped the gauze in place as good as he could, using an enormous amount of tape because John's hair would just screw up his efforts as soon as he let go of it.

In the end, the work wasn't anywhere near perfect, certainly wouldn't hold up to Dean usual strict standards when it came to patching up his family. But it was the best he could offer under the circumstances.

Dean awkwardly shuffled away from his father then, to give him space as well as to pull himself to his feet. His body didn't like the idea, had a whole different plan, apparently and Dean had to stop once he was semi-upright, left arm pressed against his side with the other braced against the tree for support.

Just a minute and he'd be ready...

Dean jumped when he felt a hand at his elbow, tearing sweat-weighed lids open to find his father standing in front of him. He was leaning against the tree too, reaching out a steadying hand towards Dean, ready to support his stance and lend strength he himself didn't seem to have.

For a second, they just looked at each other, and John finally was the one averting his eyes first.

Dean reached for the crutches he'd leaned against the tree, folding the reluctant fingers of his left hand across the slick plastic handle with effort, noting the way this simple movement already sent sparks of white hot pain up and down his arm.

John's hand was at his elbow again, rough fingertips brushing against oversensitive skin and Dean barely suppressed a shudder at the touch.

He felt his lips turn into a snarl that was ripped away ruthlessly as he pushed himself away from the tree and took the first stumbling step into the clearing. God, this was so goddamn hard. How was he ever going to _do_ this?

"Guess it's about time we end this." John said.

Dean just nodded.

He really had nothing to add to that.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_So, I hope you liked the chapter, hope it held up to the chapters before it. I can't get over all the nice reviews and PMs I'm getting, and I owe you all big time for those! I always fear to dissapoint, myself and you guys, but I hope I managed to pull it off or at least didn't mess it all up._

_I had some help on this chapter - thanks to Nalanzu for pointing out some errors and spelling mistakes and all that. I know this is still far from perfect, but, as I said before, I probably would make just as much mistakes in my native language...sad but true._

_And there's one more thing...those last two episodes of season 5...they just lef tme heartbroken. I mean, yeah, I know it's just a show and everything, but I was actually in a bit of a daze after watching. No show ever had me as invested as this one, and I was kinda of a fangirl with other shows too, but nothing ever compared to this one. So, I guess they did something right ;-)_

_Anyways, as always, your reviews help me a lot in overcoming my doubts and fears about writing for others to read, so if it's not too much to ask, I'd appreciate the minute or two of your time it takes to leave a quick review. _

_thanks for reading and I hope to see you again next week!_


	19. Chapter 19

_Here's a big thanks to everybody still reading. This story is not over yet, so I hope you'll trust me with this a little longer still. _

_Your support, silent or out loud is greatly appreciated and most defintely the only reason I'm still posting, even though bristling with self-doubt. Hearing from you every week is the most rewarding thing happening to me in a long time._

_I do hope you enjoy this next enstallment._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 19**

The body of the woman lay on top of a haphazardly assembled pile of dry leaves and some twigs, her thin form wrapped into one of Dean's shirts and John's jacket to at least scantily cover her nudity.

But Dean couldn't take his eyes off her face.

Usually, they'd cover the bodies they were about to burn in sheets so they wouldn't have to be forced to look at them, but neither of them had thought to bring any. Which turned out to be a pretty bad idea, Dean had to admit.

Dean just wished John wouldn't have turned her, wouldn't have taken off that pouch that had kept her in her animal-skin. Dean would have had a much easier time burning the animal instead of the human being.

She wasn't – _hadn't been_ pretty by any regular standards, but she'd been so far from the picture of the old, gnarled witch that everybody seemed to associate with the her profession, it had taken even Dean by surprise.

There was a dark patch of dark red staining one of the shirts that covered her since her body had only started to bleed when she'd turned back into her human form.

She probably would have died anyways, after turning voluntarily – later - but not before she'd have killed them both, and maybe some more innocent people still. It hadn't been an option. And while Dean knew that he had done the right thing, it still bugged him.

The whole case was so damn fucked up…

The lack of violence it had taken to actually kill her felt like mockery.

It defied his skills as a hunter, contradicted the physical sacrifice, the pain Dean had gone through in order to achieve his goal.

If only Dad had listened, if they'd discussed this, figured it out together…so much of this could have been avoided.

Dean finally gave up on trying to pretend, gave in to his body's demand and sagged against the broad trunk of a tree with a pained groan, dropping the crutches with a sneer of disgust. His body slowly but surely started shutting down on him, but he couldn't let that happen yet, couldn't just sit down – or lie down preferably or else he wouldn't be able to get up again. They still had to burn her, then get out of here.

And the way his dad was stumbling and falling over his own two feet continuously, couldn't keep his eyes open or walk in a straight line, he most definitely wasn't going to be of much help. That hit on the head sure had been a hard one. Dean just prayed that John would be able to make it with what little help Dean could provide, because there was no way Dean was going to be able to carry him all the way back to the Impala.

"After this is over…all of it…we need to…we have to…"

Dean broke off, biting off the sentence he hadn't consciously formed in his head before he'd opened his mouth to speak out loud. He'd just wanted to fill the heavy silence laying over them, fill it with words as was his habit, but he realized too late that had nothing to say, really. No matter what he said, there would always be something missing, always something too much, too. He'd always been the one Winchester that had known – or thought to know when it was better to stay silent, even though he'd been the one craving sound to fill the void, to push back the screams inside his head the most.

But now…Dean just couldn't figure out how to make it all better, only seemed to know how to make it worse, it seemed. His voice was rough, a tad raspy, and sounded all kinds of wrong, weary and exhausted and filled with pain Dean would have never allowed himself to display under normal circumstances. But right now he didn't even have the energy left to cover it up anymore.

John was standing off to Dean's right, his back ramrod straight with his shoulder leaning against a tree for support. His eyes were on half-mast, the effort it took to keep them open and his head from lolling uncontrollably evident in the tight set of his jaw, the lines around his eyes. But he was standing, which was all that counted at the moment.

"Dean, I'm sorry…"

Dean shook his head curtly, dismissing his father's attempt to justify his actions, most likely, to make up an excuse for distrusting his own son. Hell, he'd asked his sons time and time again to keep an open mind, to not dismiss new ideas, new perspectives, to trust even when it appeared impossible to do so. But it seemed to be harder the other way around, apparently.

So, yeah, Dad had wanted to protect him, had thought he'd keep Dean safe in leaving him behind. Dean got that. He understood better than anyone that sometimes it became most important to make sure that someone you cared about more than you cared for your own life was alright, was safe. But he also knew the meaning of trust, knew that he could trust his father indefinitely, that he would always follow his lead unquestioningly.

And it would have been nice to be granted that same kind of trust, just once.

Dean couldn't see his father's face clearly, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to, anyways. No need to dispel all that angry disappointment already – he'd get there soon enough. They'd be back to their usual demeanor in no time, dad taking the lead and Dean following him, whether he really wanted to or not.

Most of the time there was no question as to whether or not Dean wanted to have someone else take the lead. He'd had always done good with following orders, had used it as a way to center himself, to not think about what he was doing, about the absurdity of it all.

He'd drawn comfort and direction, had drawn purpose out of hearing his father's voice ever since he was a little kid, had reveled in the attention he'd been granted whenever John had come back from work when Dean had been little, Sammy not even born yet.

Dad would come home and scoop Dean up in his arms and give him a wild ride around the house before setting him down at the kitchen table – on top of the kitchen table even, which ha always made mom scowl at them. Then Dad had sat down on a chair in front of Dean and asked for a report of the day. He'd listened to everything Dean had to report, at the tender age of two or three, babbling on about the important business of being a little kid without a real worry in the world.

And when Dean had been done recounting, John would do the talking, giving Dean a rundown of his own day, describing the cars he'd fixed, the problems he'd solved, the people he'd met. Back then that had been the most exciting stories Dean could have imagined and while he didn't remember any story in particular, he still remembered the calming cadence of his father's voice.

Dean always had been a good listener. For all the talking he did, he never missed anything being said – and sometimes even things that remained unspoken.

He remembered the easy smile that had lit John's face whenever Dean had said or done something funny, the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes when he'd leaned closer and told Dean a _secret_ – between men only – that Dean wasn't supposed to share with anybody, not even his mom or, later, his little brother.

All his life, Dean had ached for the attention, maybe even more so after his mom had died. But in a way, John had stopped talking when Dean had needed it the most, had started to simply make demands. So Dean's need had shifted from being talked to, to simply hearing his father's voice.

He'd learned to take what he could get.

Dean had always tried to do better for Sam, to give his little brother what he missed for as long as he could think. He'd given Sam someone he could talk to, someone who listened to him and trusted him.

He missed that.

Since it was just Dad and him, Dean missed being the big brother, missed being the one someone looked up to, the one that someone else _listened_ to for a change.

Dean missed the _team_, the dynamics he'd had with his little brother, the tossing back and forth of ideas, the equality of their relationship. He knew that, no matter how hard he tried, how hard he fought, he would never have that kind of a relationship with his father. Not because John was a bad father, but because it just wasn't his nature. John had learned early on what it meant to carry the responsibility for two little boys, hadn't he? It had to have been a terrible responsibility, Dean thought he knew that. It had to have made him tougher than he ever wanted to be.

And still Dean couldn't help but feel hurt at not being granted his fathers trust on this hunt. He'd proven himself in the past, hadn't he? He'd never doubted, never questioned, at least not out loud. He'd proven himself worthy in always doing what had been asked of him, in taking his job seriously.

But as much as he wanted to leash out, to feel indignant and upset and maybe even scream _I told you so_ on the top of his aching lungs, Dean knew he couldn't let his emotions get the better of him. Not now, not ever.

When Sam had left Dean had thought that at least now he would be able to shed some of his hated habits and just be himself again since he wasn't forced play the peacekeeper between his father and brother anymore. Looked like he had been wrong about that, though. It seemed like the problems had just shifted, not disappeared. Now he had to save his father from his _actual_ worst enemy – John himself.

Dean closed his eyes, giving himself a second to take as deep a breath as possible, blanking out the pain raging a war inside his body and mind. Fire throbbed through his leg, simmering in his side where it was met with another bolt of heat snaking down from his left shoulder to roll in waves through his stomach. He curled it forward a little, trying to ease the strain on at least a part of his beaten body and biting down the growl of frustration that bubbled up in his chest, barely keeping it inside.

This was not the time to be weak, to break.

"Dean?"

The sound of his father's voice had Dean snap out of his despairing thoughts, had him remember where he was and why he was here and where he still had to go.

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm ready."

He forced his eyes to open, found his lashes untangling reluctantly as the sweat had bunched them up and together, making it almost impossible to pry them apart. Even though he was fuelled by sheer determination, running on nothing but fumes, it wouldn't be the first time. Certainly wouldn't be the last, either. Dean knew how to fight beyond his body's capabilities, how to overcome his own weaknesses.

John was still watching him through bleary eyes, his body tense and Dean quickly flipped his head, telling his dad to stay where he was.

"I'm fine. I can handle it." he said, shooting a look at his father, surprised to be met with a set of strangely soft brown eyes.

Dean realized that, lately, his dad had been avoiding direct eye-contact with him – unconsciously or not.

Maybe they both had.

They both averted their gaze at the same time and Dean immediately started to roam through his pockets, after an eternity coming up with the book of matches he'd been looking for.

There was a tick in his cheek that emanated from the fiery fingers of agony reaching up from his shoulder. Dean found himself squeezing his left eye shut in reaction to the pain, willing the involuntary muscle-movement to stop so he could concentrate on lighting the witch's body on fire. It felt like a million little nerve-endings exploded all over the side of his neck and face, leaving his face pulled taut like an ill fitting mask stretched over a rolling sea of nerves and muscles, the sensation almost making it impossible to concentrate on the task at hand.

It took a minute or two until Dean had the small box of matches open, almost dropping it a couple of times in his dazed haste. His fingers were clumsy and uncooperative, his whole left arm feeling numb and burning with pins and needles at the same time.

He almost jumped out of his skin, almost lost whatever precarious balance he'd managed to establish when his father's hand suddenly snaked across his shaking fingers, gently but decisively picking the matches out of his grasp.

For a second Dean thought about not relinquishing his hold, wanted so badly to remain some sort of control even if it only meant to set her on fire, end an existence that had brought pain and death to others. She'd deserved to die and Dean wanted to be the one ending it, once and for all to get some sort of closure, maybe.

As his fingers closed around the tiny box a little more tightly and so did John's, gripping Dean's wrist and applying a bit of pressure that finally had Dean looking up and into his father's eyes.

Even though John kept his head lowered, effectively dipping his eyes in shadows Dean could see some of his own determination and maybe even desperation mirrored in his dad's face, could see the same need reflected there that he was feeling.

Reluctantly he relaxed his fingers around the small piece of cardboard, could feel his father do the same so he could slip out of his grasp.

In the end, Dean did nothing but stand there, swaying a little as his right leg trembled underneath his whole weight, his eyes locked onto a point in front of the corpse they were about to burn and waiting for his father to light the whole book of matches.

John took a step or two away from Dean before flicking the matches on top of the woman, as if wanting to make sure that he wouldn't light his own son on fire because his aim was still a little off. They stood in almost respectful silence as the flames caught hold of her body, slowly starting to eat away at her remains until every last bit of her was engulfed by hungry heat.

Dean didn't want to look, didn't want to remember her face as she was going up in flames, giving him a face to remember, another memory to be tattooed onto his brain, so he merely waited until he was sure that the body had caught fire before struggling to pull himself together and upright. He tried his best to ignore the fiery agony spiking through his leg and shoulder, tried not to think about the renewed damage done, but it was hard going, if not impossible. He heard a not so stifled groan of pain and wrenched his eyes open, looking towards his father before he realized that he himself had made the sound.

He couldn't break, not yet. It still wasn't over, and Dean idly wondered if it would ever be, if he'd ever feel even remotely normal again.

And then he wondered what normal actually felt like.

But all that mattered right now was that it was over for now.

Another hunt finished – no matter the price.

Dean stood there for another minute, trying to regain his balance, scratching together enough energy to get himself moving. He compulsively flexed his fingers to keep them from rubbing over his face in the familiar gesture of weariness and despair that John would have been able to interpret accordingly within seconds. He took a stumbling step backwards only as the heat reached towards him, attempting to pull him forwards with hungry fingers.

The heat from the fire rippled the air between the two hunters, strangely distorting John's features, laying a curtain of anonymity over them that Dean was both sad and thankful for. They both watched the fire in silence, mesmerized by the flames' crackling dance.

Dean's voice, albeit low and gravelly, made John jump.

"Her name was Tanya Ruger. We gotta make sure…once we get back…once we're back at the house, we need to know, need to find out who she really was," Dean stated quietly, blinking himself awake and out of his stupor, drawing his head back and carefully, painstakingly pulling his body more upright up to stand in an almost erect, yet steady gait.

Talking hurt, Dean realized, the way the muscles in his neck shifted with every movement of his jaw, tearing at the tender flesh around the bites. He winced yet refused to close his eyes and give in to the almost overwhelming pull of pain that kept adding weight to every atom of his body.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see John turning towards him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"We know her name," John said while slowly moving towards Dean again, closing the few steps of distance that felt like a gaping canyon with his slightly unsteady gait. Dean suddenly found himself disconcerted by the sudden closeness as his father moved towards his right side till their shoulders almost touched. Maybe it was because he knew how he reacted to his father's closeness, his touch – the automatic lowering of his guard, as if a mere touch provided him with enough peace and security to let a little of that ever present tension slip away.

And he didn't want that, not now.

Right now he needed space to figure out if he was ready to let this pass, just like he'd let every other slip on his father's part pass in the past.

Before John reached him, Dean spun himself around, rolling his right shoulder forwards and away, effectively blocking John's path.

John stopped in mid-movement, wobbling a little but staying where he was, a mere arm's length away from him but not closing him on him further.

Dean swallowed, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it quickly when he caught on a flake of dried sky. His voice sounded a lot softer than he would have liked when he spoke again, but it probably was just exhaustion holding toning his reaction down at the moment.

"I'm not talking about her name, dad. I'm talking about finding out who she was as a person."

He shifted his weight forward onto his crutches, feeling the impossible increase in pressure in his shoulder, the downward pull of bone-jarring pain in his leg.

His eyes left the burning carcass and fastened onto the path that lay before him, trying his hardest not to look back. This was the only direction he knew how to go, after all – forward. Towards where the Impala awaited him at the end of this part of the journey. He could almost taste the relief like the sweetest piece of candy on his palate and barely refrained from smacking his lips in hungry anticipation.

After that, it was all a big, fat blank.

For the moment he just wanted to lie down on the seats that had held his body, healthy or hurt, on so many occasions in his life. Even though he did doubt that even her soothing arms would bring him relief right now, he was well past the point of being easily healed. It scared Dean a little to realize this because he'd always been the master of negating the hopeless situations he'd stumbled into. He had a pretty good track-record of pretending to be fine and believing it himself when everybody else around him just waited for him to pass out.

John was at his side as they reached the end of the clearing and Dean had to work hard on not turning around to have a last look back, to keep moving forward and not react to his father's close proximity in the way he really wanted to at the moment.

"It will only be over once we found _her_. Give it closure – for her, too."

He sounded a lot like Sam all of a sudden, wanting to know the names to the faces they saved, behind the faces they lost. Wanting to know the reason behind their actions, the motivations – wanting to know what made them who they _were_. It had never been his MO, but he suddenly understood his little brother's appeal.

"She was a witch, Dean. She mingled with powers that she should have stayed away from and now got to pay the price. We did our job - she deserved what she got," John said almost off-handedly as he helped Dean regain his footing.

Dean's head snapped up at the last sentence, anger inexplicably boiling in his guts, overshadowing even the sheer, bone-deep pain and exhaustion that made it impossible to concentrate on anything put hauling his battered body onwards. He had to stop, to catch his breath, sure, but also because he couldn't believe his dad…and he wanted to be eye to eye with John here.

Another stab of pain sliced through his leg and he came down especially hard on his crutches, stumbling as the toes of his bad leg caught on some sort of root sticking out of the ground. Just then, though, he felt his father sneaking an arm around his hip, catching his fall at the last second.

"She's got to have family, friends - people that loved her and cared about her, no matter what. They'll be looking for her. No matter what she's done or said or how much they fought, they'd still love her, dad. Because that's what family does. They deserve to know – and she deserves to be mourned…"

Dean had to stop his tirade because he ran out of breath, the task of talking and remaining standing too much, a seemingly unconquerable obstacle.

John appeared taken aback by his Dean's sudden outbreak, the open accusation and deeply rooted determination. Well, it was about time he goddamn shut up and listened…

"What are you getting at?" John asked, and if it wasn't for the slightly cross-eyes look, the blown and unfocused pupils, Dean would have felt like hitting him, right in the face, for real this time.

"All I want is for her family to get her back. Even if they fought or chased her out of the house, someone would want her back, even if it was in death. They'd want her back… I don't know yet how, but we'll let them know."

With one last, heavy look Dean finally started walking again, setting a pace that he wouldn't be able to keep up for long, he knew. Already his leg felt like it would be ripped off his body with every single step, the wounds in his shoulder seemingly tearing open wider and wider every time Dean shifted his weight onto his crutches. With cold dread knotting in his stomach Dean realized that the handle of the crutch was slippery under his fingers, something slick and warm making him almost slip off the plastic hold.

He wanted to say more, so much more, didn't know why now of all times he felt like facing up to his father, but in the end the effort to keep moving proved to be too much already, and he again kept it all to himself.

He concentrated on just walking, dragging his body forwards on arms that were beyond shaky, beyond exhausted. Every movement jarred his leg in ways that he'd never been able to imagine He barely managed to block out the pain stampeding through his body like the biggest, maddest flock of cows he'd ever come across, knew that if he stopped now, if he gave in to his body's screaming demand for rest, he wouldn't be able to get up again.

He barely made it a couple of steps before he realized that John wasn't next to him anymore. He was about to stop and turn back, to support him, because that was what Dean did, always would do, no matter what, when an arm suddenly slipped across Dean's back, a strong and surprisingly steady hand splaying wide against his ribcage.

It felt as if with that simple touch, a ton of weight slipped off Dean's shoulders and he involuntarily leaned into the support – just a little - as if he'd been about to fall just this second. His shoulder collided with his fathers as he moved in next to Dean, John almost tripping over Dean's crutch in his clumsy attempt to provide his son with the assistant he so obviously needed.

For a moment, they both faltered, Dean's crutch-aided gait making it hard for him to accept any kind of help without stumbling even worse than before.

It was far from comfortable, in a strictly physical sense, and still Dean didn't, for the life of him, want his dad to let go and they did what they always did – they learned to deal with any inconveniences, worked around the odds and tackled their difficulties.

They left behind the dying fire burning at their backs, glad that it had rained only a day or two ago and the ground was still slightly damp, not running the danger of torching down the whole forest in their attempt to rid the town of the evil that had haunted it.

They just had to make it out of here. Everything after that, Dean honestly didn't care anymore.

They were alive - both of them a little worse for wear, but they were still walking.

John did his best to assist Dean with his own staggering gait, to not hinder him further but more often than not he stumbled against Dean, throwing him off his already precarious balance.

One hell of a pair they were.

But they were alive.

And Dean planned to keep it that way for just a little while longer.

OoOoOoO

Dean carried himself all the way back to the car and John couldn't help but feel awed at his son's stubborn heroism.

He stumbled a couple of times, sure, but every time John reached out to steady him, his own shot to hell balance more hindering than helpful, Dean pulled himself together with seemingly super-human effort, drawing strength from unknown sources to walk yet another couple of steps, then another, and then one more still.

They didn't talk, both of them intent on saving their breath, but John was able to read his son's body language like an open book, emotions seemingly wafting off of him in uncontrollable waves of suffocating agony.

John had no idea how Dean did it, how he managed to hold on to whatever little snipped of sanity he had left, but somehow he did it. Somehow he kept moving.

The longer they went, the more apparent it became that the brave front he was trying to put up for his father's benefit was just that, though – a front. A big, fat yet frighteningly see-trough front.

Part of John wanted to call Dean on it, wanted to confront him and tell him to stop, to step back down and admit to being hurt, to being at the end of his strength. He didn't know what good it would do to hear it, didn't know why some sick part of him wanted for his son to admit to his suffering.

Maybe it was the mere fact that John had screwed up so royally, had made such an impossibly big mistake – with this hunt as well as so many other things, lately. Too many things, it seemed, to be able to fix them all anymore. Maybe he thought that in getting Dean to admit to his weakness, to let down his guard, John himself wouldn't feel so damn exposed himself. As if it would justify walking out on Dean when his son had so openly asked him to stay, to not leave him. But getting Dean to admit to his weakness would probably only serve to make John feel even more guilty, in the end.

It would leave them both with more pain spilling out in the open than either of them knew how to deal with.

This was John's fault.

If he'd listened, if he'd stayed with his son, if they'd spent a little more time researching this… Dean might not have gotten hurt – even more hurt than he already had been.

And then, of course, there was always the matter of Dean existing on this insane view he had of himself – of being indestructible, of being strong against all odds. Of never admitting to weakness or else he'd be taken advantage of. John had tried to tell himself all his life that it was Sam's fault that Dean was the way he was, the kid looking up to his big brother with that fierce devotion and love, practically bullying Dean into taking on the role of the protector.

In reality though, and John was painfully aware of that now more so than ever, it was John own fault.

He'd had put Dean on this path, ever since Mary's death, ever since putting the responsibility of a squirmy baby into Dean's arms. Ever since telling him for the first time to take care of his brother.

John had given Dean a purpose, and by now it had become impossible to tell where the purpose ended and _Dean_ began. Or if there really even was a difference between the two anymore.

"You see something...you like? Or did I…grow a horn...or somethin'?"

John snapped out of his thoughts by Dean's voice, sounding like gravel scraping over concrete, quick panting bursts of breath interrupting him every other word in order to draw enough air into his lungs. He spoke in a low voice, as if any decrease in volume would shatter his last reserves and bring him inevitably to his knees.

John blinked himself back into the here and now, surprised and satisfied to find that, while his vision was still blurry, he was able to focus much faster already, his head still hurting yet not splitting quite as wide open as before.

He searched for Dean's eyes, found his son dipping his chin low under his father's imploring gaze, heavy lids and long, damp lashes effectively shielding his green orbs from the scrutinizing gaze.

"No…no, just thinking …" John conceded, knowing full well that, should he admit to any of his thoughts out loud Dean would probably die of humiliation.

"Huh. That hit to the head...had to have been harder…than I thought…"

Dean sounded painfully out of breath, even the obvious barb delivered with not even a trace of the usual tease in his voice.

As they started walking again John tried to remember how much farther they would have to go. Going in had felt like nothing at all. Going back out proved to be a different matter altogether.

Strangely enough though, John felt better with every step he took towards safety, towards the car that might have once been his but had always really been theirs, at best – maybe always ever had been Dean's to begin with. To John the car held so many more memories than it ever did for his son and still he couldn't help but notice the way Dean had owned the Impala from the very beginning, ever since they'd taken their first drive home from the hospital, the kid tucked away safe and sound in his baby-seat. Almost as if the car had claimed him as her own.

But while John seemed to regain some bit of strength with every step he took, Dean seemed to lose it, energy seeping out of his body with frightening consistency. If he could have, John would have carried him. But that wasn't an option until Dean was completely out and unaware, and that, in turn, was not a satisfying turn of events either.

Dean still fighting – that John knew how to deal with.

"Almost there." He offered with a sideways look, knowing that if he looked too closely, Dean would push himself even harder to keep up the appearance.

Dean didn't answer, but only seconds later they stepped around a bend in the beaten path and suddenly were greeted with the glint of black metal against the almost equally dark background of trees surrounding it.

They simultaneously released a breath, Dean almost faltering at the instant he caught sight of her, as if just knowing safety was so close, relief just within his grasp.

The last couple of steps were the hardest, apparently, and once they reached the Impala's sleek body Dean reached out a hand to brace himself against her, chin sinking against his chest as he took a shuddering breath he was unsuccessful to hold back or even tone down a little.

John immediately started fumbling through his pockets, a little light-headed still, keeping a weary eye on his son. The cuts on his forearm burned, but he was able to move the arm alright without any greater difficulty, so the damage couldn't be all that bad. Nothing some bandage and some aspirin couldn't fix.

Everything else, though…

When he finally found the key in the right front pocket of his jeans Dean looked up at him. Sweat covered his face and neck like a second skin, staining the already wasted shirt he was wearing an even darker shade of grey and plastering the torn and bloody fabric to his torso. John saw the damp spot on the roof of the car where Dean's hand had lain against the cool metal just seconds ago.

Small tremors raked through his frame in almost constant seizure-like spells.

"You OK…to drive?" Dean asked carefully, hopefully.

"More than you." John said and he could have hit himself the moment the words left his mouth but for once Dean didn't seem to have the energy to take the comment as an affront.

"Good."

Getting Dean into the car was less of a problem than John would have thought, getting him settled into a position that didn't pull or poke or put pressure on any of his wounds, old or new, was a totally different matter.

As Dean slipped low into the seat, head back against the cushions, shoulder painfully erect, John didn't fail to hear the sigh of relief and pain alike, didn't fail to see the lines between and around his eyes deepen to seemingly impossible depths. Once his eyes slipped closed they didn't open again, and John started the car, feeling the power of her engine vibrate through his fingers against her steering wheel, pushing another bit of weariness and pain out of the way.

And still his fear didn't abate, didn't get any more bearable.

"Dean,"

"Yeah,"

Still he didn't open his eyes but simply rolled his head on the back of the seat a little only to immediately halt his movement with a low gasp of pain as the movement strained the wounds in his shoulder. John also didn't fail to detect the almost violent tremor that rippled the muscles in his left thigh, a movement Dean wasn't able to keep hidden even though he had the fingers of his left hand splayed atop of the jerking limb, holding the whole arm pinned against his side with his right hand to keep it as immobile as possible.

"You mind looking at me?" John said, but Dean merely drew his brows together more tightly.

"'m not the one…got hit on the head this time…"

"Yeah, well, humor me, would you?" John pressed gently and finally was rewarded with a thin sliver of green peeking out at him from between tangled lashes.

"Happy now?"

"Having a party." John grumbled before shifting the gear into drive. As he pulled out onto the road he caught sight of the old and battered Honda being parked there, doors wide open as if someone had abandoned it in a rush. John realized he hadn't even thought about how Dean had gotten here. He couldn't believe he'd actually stolen and driven a car here all the way…

"Just so you know…the minute you pass out on me, we're going straight to the hospital." John said without taking his eyes off the road, still finding it hard to concentrate, his vision still slipping in and out of focus a little. He would have to concentrate pretty damn hard so he didn't end up driving them into a ditch.

It was a testament to how absolutely at the end of his rope Dean had to be feeling when he didn't even find the energy to call John's bluff.

A quick check revealed Dean to be breathing still, but his eyes were once again closed, his body almost painfully tense. His left hand was curled into a loose fist, but he seemed to be pressing it into his still quivering thigh with barely any force at all.

"You heard me?" John asked, hoping to get a rise out of his son, biting his lips when Dean merely rolled his bottom lip between his teeth momentarily before giving a quick, barely noticeable nod.

"Loud and clear."

And that was that.

John didn't think he'd manage to concentrate on driving and talking at the same time as it was.

But he was absolutely prepared to make good of his threat if the need arose.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Here's something I thought long and hard about posting. I probably shouldn't, but this is the only place for me to let down my walls - sad but true._

_Never tell someone that has just been subjected to tragedy that 'life goes on'. It might be true, but it's not what you want to hear if you're at a point in your life where you think that, indeed, the world just stopped turning. You have a goddamn right to think that life won't go on. The pain over a loss will lessen one day, but it will never go away for good. And the last thing you want to hear is that you might one day spend a day and not think about a person you've lost way too early, that was taken from you brutally and without warning. _

_I know a family that has been robbed of their mother and wife last week. I hope they'll find a way for their lifes to go on, even though it might not appear that way now._

_sorry. T__hanks for listening._

_till next week._

_take care_


	20. Chapter 20

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 20**

"Maybe we should have just let it be…I'm sure…it would heal just fine…" Dean ground out between gulps of forced breaths, barely refraining from reaching up and pulling his father's hand away from his shoulder.

He tried to keep his pose was outwardly relaxed yet every muscle in his body remained tensed, his right hand fisted tightly into the sweat soaked sheets his dad had wrestled onto the sofa after hauling Dean's sorry butt up there.

The drive to the safe house had been the longest drive of his life, Dean thought, and the Winchesters had done their fair share of long-distance driving and still this trip now somehow stood out among the others, rating right up there with the drive from the hospital a way too short while ago.

But Dean had remained conscious throughout, had talked to his dad to keep him awake as well, and together they'd made it back. It was a small miracle, if one believed in those, but they were both still walking – more or less. Well, Dad was. Dean was…hobbling, dragging himself forward, barely hanging on. But as long as it worked…

How they'd managed to get inside the house Dean didn't remember, since by the time the Impala finally stopped in their driveway, Dean hadn't been able to hold on to the crutch with his left hand anymore. Despite his no doubt heavy concussion, John basically had to carry him inside and help him crawl onto the sofa.

For whatever reason Dean had felt the need to stay here in the living room, had refused to go into the den where he could have lain on the bed. People died in beds. The sofa felt less…final, somehow. As if he could possibly fight better, harder, more effectively if he didn't give his body the impression of eternal rest.

"I really should have taken you to the hospital…" John grumbled, but his voice wasn't the harsh bark of disapproval that Dean was used to if his dad really was angry. Besides, John Winchester always got his wish and if he'd actually insisted on taking Dean anywhere else but the safe house, Dean would have not been able to fight him.

Dean decided to let his father's comment pass, instead busying himself with counting the pattern of damp spots dotting the ceiling above his head. There were twenty-three spots of various sizes and states of drying out, forming a pattern that looked vaguely like a chupacabra, if one knew what one of those looked like.

In the upper right corner of the living room Dean could still make out the small blackened bullet hole where Sam had played with one of the guns he'd found in Dad's duffel and the thing had accidentally gone off in his hands. John had scolded Dean, of course, for not watching his brother closely enough while Dean had been furious at his father for bringing a loaded gun into a house where a four year old walked around and had his chubby hands everywhere.

Dean had practically been Sam's shadow from that time on, and John had carefully kept his guns locked away in places even Sammy's nosy and sticky little fingers couldn't reach. It had been a lesson in child-rearing both the 'older' Winchesters had learned quickly.

A violent shiver shook Dean's body to the core and he clenched his teeth shut to keep the groan of pain inside, the memories of times long past cut off as his mind was forced to focus onto the immediate present. He was sweating rivers, his skin rippling with tiny tremors of cold and exhaustion, the heat of his feverish body battling against the chill of the room. His dad's hands kept slipping where they were trying their best to hold his shoulder down and the edges of the wound together while gently pushing the needle through skin and flesh, sealing it shut again.

Dean bit back on a growl of pain, clenching the fingers of his right hand ever more tightly until he heard the knuckles crack and pop in audible complaint to the strain he put on them.

God, this hurt.

And it didn't really help that the damn bites were right next to the wounds the black dog had graced him with, didn't really help that his dad had started his treatment with the _cleanest_, the least ugly wounds, as he had put it. Dean would have preferred for him to have a go at the worse ones on his rear neck and shoulder first, get those out of the way. But he hadn't been able to offer much in terms of resistance as John had gotten to work with a fierce determination that had Dean bite back any request and resign himself to what he knew was to come.

He really was in no condition to question his dad, was he? And John did seem to have things under control once again, taking over for both of them with a quiet and familiar certitude that had Dean backing down immediately. He'd always known his place, had drawn comfort out of habits long since engrained into his very being.

He tried to flex the fingers of his left hand, wincing and sucking in a breath when, next to the tingly sensation of before a sharp pain spiked its way up his arm and seemingly straight into his teeth.

It sure felt like the wolf's teeth had hit a nerve or something…

Or maybe it had just been a little too much, in the end, all the abuse and torture on the arm, his whole body simply bailing out on, making him pay for years of negligence and abuse.

But certainly not today, right? Not today…

Another sharp, stabbing pain ripped Dean right back into the here and now as John placed another stitch into the tender flesh just atop his collarbone, tying it off with a swift efficiency. Despite knowing that there was a whole lot of pain to deal with still, every stitch done was a relief, too, knowing that the end of the torture was drawing nearer.

John had everything under control, was taking care of this – of him. Dean needed this to be true more than most else.

Just then Dean saw his father blink a couple of times, his focus seemingly shifting before he closed his eyes momentarily, his fingers laying still against Dean's tight-hot skin.

"Hey Dad," Dean ran a sluggish tongue over his parched lips, wincing at the raw sound of his voice.

John's eyes snapped open again and it took him a moment to focus his gaze on Dean's face. Once he did, though, the eyes that met Dean's were as sharp and alert as ever. "Yeah."

Dean coughed around a groan that almost managed to push past his barrier, swallowing heavily as John continued to press a thick patch of gauze against the freshly stitched wound and taped it into place.

"You sure you're…good to do this? Are you feeling OK?"

Dean rolled his head on the cushions to have a better look at John's face, wincing at the pull of ripped muscle along his neck and shoulder.

"Yeah I'm sure - I'm good."

John's voice was tense, clipped, worry and weariness hovering dangerously close to the surface. It scared Dean a little, hearing the obvious _weakness _in his father's voice, while at the same time he felt a hot wave of frustration rush through him.

_He was good_ – what a joke. Even though, if he was just a little honest with himself, Dean knew it was a typical Winchester cover-up reaction – a family trait Dean was far too familiar with. It just was something completely different being at the receiving end of stubborn stoicism than being the one dishing out the macho-attitude.

"Good, because…I wouldn't want you…sewing up any holes that are supposed to stay open, you know?" Dean quipped without much steam, simply trying to keep up the appearance, to add something to their little game of pretense.

John tipped the corner of his mouth up into the hint of a smile that showed Dean that he recognized and appreciated the effort, but was too tired to join into the act just now.

He looked just about as bad as Dean felt, which said a lot, really.

"How about you?" John asked softly. "You hanging in there?"

Just then another shiver of grinding pain washing over Dean's body, no doubt showing on his features, no matter how hard he tried to keep it hidden.

"Fine…'m awesome."

"Quit saying that, or so help me god, I'll run the Impala into the next ditch the minute we're done here."

"That would hurt you just as much as it would hurt me…" Dean offered around a shaky exhale, barely able to suppress the surge of panic at the threat aimed at his beloved car.

"You ready to take the risk?" John asked dryly, quietly, and Dean really couldn't be sure whetherhe was being serious or not.

He pondered his father's question for a moment, finally deciding that, no, it really wasn't worth the risk. Not when he wasn't even all that fine to begin with.

When he failed to respond to the question John nodded, a momentary smile of grim satisfaction ghosting over his drawn face before he turned serious again.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." And after a second's pause he added, softly: "You need to turn to your side now so I can have a go at your back…"

Dean grunted his assent, tried to shift his weight on the too soft cushions. He needed John's help to move anyway at all though, not able to draw himself forward with his left arm while his right one was still pinned between his body and the sofa's backrest. The sofa was pretty narrow and Dean ended up with his face practically squished against the back-cushions of the furniture. John held him steadily in place with one hand, arranging a pillow underneath his cast-covered leg with the other.

"You good like this?" John asked quietly.

"Yeah, real comfy," Dean croaked, deciding that this position at least had the advantage of him being able to keep his eyes closed during the treatment without giving too much away. Like this he could let down some part of that wall that had been crumbling already, using the fallen pieces to strengthen the bastion in other places that were in serious need of repair.

A few moments of shuffling and shifting later Dean found himself laying still again. He was exhausted to the point where he was ready to drop off, unconsciousness clawing with greedy fingers at his body and mind, when suddenly a burning hot pain pulled him right back into focus, had him ripping his eyes open, then clenching them closed again. He sputtered a strangled cry, too late to bite the sound off and stave it in its beginning.

"Goddamnit…godfuckingdamnit …"

His neck and shoulder were on fire, hungry tendrils of molten lava digging their way into his body, through skin and flesh and muscle until they lit up his very core, starting to burn their way towards the surface again through seemingly every available pore of his skin. Every single fiber of his body screamed, tensed, locked in silent shock and he felt his left arm jerk spastically, an impotent fist slamming into the too soft cushions of the backrest, trying to punch his way through to hit something – anything.

Something cool ran down the side of his neck and over his shoulders, sneaking its way across his chest and back, the cool trail heating up again after only seconds as his burning body seemed to evaporate the liquid before it ever reached the sheets below him.

Holy water.

Just goddamn holy water.

But it felt like alcohol or peroxide being poured into an open wound the size of a damn sinkhole, followed by whole truckload of salt, just to make it a little bit more interesting.

"That's it…alright. Easy, easy, just try to breathe through it."

Yeah, right. Like he was ever going to breathe, ever again with all that liquid heat boiling his blood and scorching his organs into a puddle of muck.

"Wounds are deeper back here, more ragged, too. Will take a while to wash it all out…"

John's hand was on his neck, Dean realized, just below and next to some of the slashes the wolf's sharp teeth had left behind. Long fingers held his taut neck steady, applying just the slightest bit of pressure, just the right amount of comfort. And after the first shock had subsided, leaving Dean panting and swallowing back bile rising in his throat Dean felt his father's thumb brush in a steady cadence against his rippling skin. He was working a soothing rhythm that Dean automatically reacted to, instantly trying and succeeding in matching his breathing to the offered beat.

A couple of seconds after the holy water's cleansing powers had stolen Dean's breath, the circular motion of John's hand ceased and John gripped Dean's neck a little more tightly once more, giving him a second's warning. Dean immediately knew what was coming and tried to prepare himself as good as possible only to find out that there was no way to anticipate what was coming.

The second dousing seemed to hurt a little less than the first one, even though the relief was laughably insignificant at best. But Dean's brain seemed to be shutting down on him, his pain-perception dulled by the continuous torture, his synapses simply overloading and short-circuiting with all the stress they'd been forced to deal with. It almost seemed like his mind just couldn't come up with new descriptions for the agony it was being put through.

Despite it being less painful, the three dousing-cycles Dad put him through left Dean breathless and on the verge of collapse and he practically sobbed into the suffocating safety of the cushions pressed against his face as John finally gave his neck a gentle pat and rub, declaring the ordeal to be over.

"There, that should do it. As good as new…"

There was no mistaking the calming softness in his dad's voice, so far from the commanding quality he sometimes portrayed while patching up his son, believing that it was the only way to make Dean get trough this.

Dean struggled to draw his first steady breath in what felt like hours.

"Hard part's almost over…" John offered quietly, almost as if talking to himself and Dean just closed his eyes and swallowed, knowing that it wasn't quite true.

"Like it's ever…_really _over," he ground out on an exhale, closing himself off again, awaiting the end of his father's ministrations to finally be able to start building up those walls again. It would be hard work, but it had to be done. Dean had pretty much laid himself bare and that was nothing he dealt with well.

It was about damn time they started working on getting things back the way they used to be.

OoOoOoO

John could tell the exact moment Dean finally let go and slipped into oblivion.

It was the moment John had tied up the last stitch, was right before he ever even got to attach the pad of gauze to the back of his son's mangled shoulder. Dean's body just slumped, sinking deeply into the cushions of the old, springy sofa as if he just wanted to melt into the worn cushions and disappear.

For a moment, John panicked.

He checked his son's pulse and found it a little erratic maybe, but still strong, still beating. Even unconscious, his skin was still rippling with feverish chills, a steady wave of tiny shudders that just wouldn't subside.

"I really should have taken you to that hospital," John whispered as he gently maneuvered Dean's prone form back onto his back, carefully to put the softest pillow underneath his wounded shoulder and eased his leg into a better position against a cushion.

The cast was dirty beyond words, but at least it wasn't cracked or broken. They still needed to get it checked out but it would have to wait a day or two. Somehow, John had less problems getting Dean to do something he didn't want when the kid was awake and aware, when they were able to talk things out, even though Dean hardly ever really talked back to his father. But taking him to the hospital while unconscious, as long as there was even the tiniest hope left that they'd be able to handle things on their own somehow felt like a bigger betrayal, a breach of trust that John didn't think he could afford at the moment.

John gave his son's bare torso a silent once-over, noting the way one of the already almost-healed gashes in his abdomen had pulled open again at the edges, another one against his side looking red and angry. There were a couple of smaller bruises along his upper chest and John suspected that those were remnants from the wolf's brutal attack. Other than that he didn't look as if he'd suffered any additional injuries to the vicious bite marks at least – which was a tiny blessing to say the least but John was thankful for even this tiny break they'd been granted.

For all the times in the past weeks he'd seen his son in various states of undress it still struck him how much weight Dean had lost over the course of the past weeks, how pale and beaten he looked. Those freckles that John always dreaded seeing on his son's nose because they reminded him so much of his Mary stood out more prominently than ever, the almost purple smudges underneath his eyes thrown into even deeper shadow by his ridiculously long lashes which lay bunched up and tangled with moisture against his cheeks.

His face looked hollow and filled with too much pain at the same time and John had to dig thumb and forefinger of his left hand into his eyes roughly to fight back the tears that suddenly threatened to spill.

Dean's chest was hitching occasionally, the muscles in his abdomen fluttering and tightening as he seemed to fend off another chill, cramp-like shivers making his muscles tense on a regular basis.

What a freaking mess – all of it.

John sank on his haunches next to his sleeping son, pulling one of the comforters he'd taken from the beds in the den and spreading over his body carefully, noting the way Dean's brow pulled together at even the soft touch of the fabric. But after drawing away automatically at the first contact he soon relaxed again, turning his face towards the back of the sofa before stilling once more. The frown that bisected his brow didn't quite cease even in sleep though, his jaw still tight and working.

John slowly reached out to carefully brush the back of his hand against Dean's forehead in a gesture that felt almost too intimate, too private, checking for the fever he feared to be there, his suspicions being confirmed with frightening clarity. Dean remained oblivious to the gesture, as John had half dreaded, half hoped. Part of him had prayed for Dean to open his eyes, shoot his father a petrified look, demanding that he keep his fingers to himself, he could look all he want but touching was reserved for some hot chick.

They were so far from alright, and it wasn't just the obvious physical aspect that had John fearing the worst for their already fragile relationship.

Dean sighed and shifted in sleep only to immediately tense up again, the ever present frown deepening as his injuries registered even in unconsciousness.

His fever was pretty high and John made a mental note to keep an eye on it, to get some of those pills into his son as soon as he woke up again – preferably even earlier. But first he decided to take of himself, get out of the dirty clothes and clean the bites on his forearm before they got infected as well. There was no sense in both of them being laid up any more at this point. One of them had to be able to look out for both of them. John thought he could be that person, had to be that person since the usual keeper of their sorry little family was out for the count.

Reluctantly John left his son in the living room and peeled himself out of his dirty clothes in the bathroom, leaving the stained and ripped garments on a tangled heap on the floor.

There'd be plenty of time later to decide which pieces he could still save or which would remain unsalvageable. He left the door ajar as he took a shower so he would hear if Dean needed him and just stood under the lukewarm spray of the water for a while fascinated by the amount of grime and dirt and blood that washed off him and colored the draining water almost brown.

As he ducked his head underneath the showerhead the gash on the back of his head gave a vicious sting, the contact with the water unexpectedly painful and John thought he'd keel over. But he caught himself against the shower-wall at the last second, riding out the wave of nausea and dizzying pain until he was able to see past the stars crowding his vision once more. When he finally stepped out from under the stinging spray of the water he still felt about a hundred years old and weary beyond words. But closer inspection revealed that the gash at the back of his head had stopped bleeding and some clumsy probing strengthened his suspicion that it really wasn't too deep.

It still hurt like hell, still would give him a bad-ass headache for at least a couple of days, but it could do without stitches, John decided. _Had_ to do without stitches, since Dean wouldn't be able to do it for him right now, so there really wasn't much of a choice.

The living room was still silent, so John set about cleaning the wound in his arm, cleaning it with the last of their holy water before closing two of the deeper bites – probably done by the wolf's huge canine tooth – with two stitches each. He had to do them left-handedly, which made them look crooked and everything but perfect, but again – it had to make do. Once the arm was bandaged and he was clad in clean clothes John finally felt reasonably human again.

Dean still was out but had somehow managed to tangle himself into the sheets and blanket, the fabric basically wrapped around him and soaked through with fevered sweat.

"Jesus, kid," John mumbled as he struggled to disentangle the sweat soaked sheets from his son's flailing limbs.

"You never stop moving, do you?"

And Dean didn't stop, even tough his movements were sluggish at best but still strong enough to hinder John's efforts to free him of the confining pieces of fabric.

"You just got to stop fighting every once in a while," John whispered urgently as he held his son's shoulders and arms down, waiting while his struggles spiked under the confining touch before dying down, finally, Dean admitting defeat, if just for the moment.

Fever had always made Dean restless and even under regular circumstances his eldest had never been one to sit still for long. Even when he wasn't moving, Dean was never still, always bouncing, tapping, twitching or wiggling his toes, even. It was only on hunts, when the situation demanded it that he was able to keep absolutely and completely still, all senses focused onto the task at hand, his body at home and at peace with itself, it appeared.

It used to be enough to make John believe that Dean indeed embodied the life he was forced to lead, entirely absorbed in what seemed to be his one and only purpose next to taking care of his little brother.

At times it seemed almost impossible to tell where the purpose ended and _Dean_ began - or if there even was a difference between the two anymore.

"Be right back," John mumbled, filling the oppressing silence in the room as he walked into the kitchen, roaming through Dean's meds and sorting out the ones he needed, wrenching open a bottle of water before settling back down next to the sofa. "Gotta wake up there for a second, son."

He tapped Dean's face lightly, but the only reaction he got in return was a groan of disapproval and Dean tried to turn his head away, the movement halted as it stretched the fresh sutures on his neck and shoulder.

John reached his hand behind his son's neck, splaying his palm against Dean's skull and held him still, turning him back around so he lay facing John once more.

"Dean," he prompted gently, relieved when he saw his son immediately react to his voice even though he still refused to open his eyes. "You need to take your meds and have a drink, then you can go back to sleep again."

The incentive was lost on Dean, apparently, and it took more coaxing and seemingly endless words of quiet persuasion before Dean dug himself out of his fever-induced slumber, opening his eyes as if it was the greatest of efforts. He stayed awake just long enough to unquestionably swallow the pills John handed him, chasing them down with half a bottle of water before drifting off again. His eyes, albeit heavy-lidded and barely open had been pinned to his father but through it all he hadn't said one word.

Somehow, John was almost grateful that he was granted this last bit of respite, even though he knew that, most likely, it wouldn't make the outcome any different.

But for now he'd won some time.

Once Dean had drifted off again John was left in a total void, his head spinning so wildly, he couldn't grasp one single thought to analyze it further. A pretty fierce headache was making itself known and John got up to swallow a couple of aspirin before finding himself back at his son's side again.

Finally, Dean seemed to be sleeping more or less peacefully.

Once more John adjusted the blankets over his son's body, satisfied that the shivering had died down a little, that he wasn't tossing and turning quite as fitfully anymore. And now that he was finally left with nothing more to do John suddenly felt the bone-deep weariness that always hit him in the aftermath of a hunt, after hours of being on high alert and focused onto one single task. Hunting evil, killing monsters. During a hunt it was all that mattered.

But the hours _after_ returning from a hunt were always the hardest, when all the tension and concentration slowly bled out of John's system and he was left to deal with _reality_ again.

Coming home used to be an incentive, a reward, back when his boys had still been little and he'd left them behind when going out to hunt alone. Once he'd seen his kids again, John had been reminded why he did what he did. They'd made him remember the reason he wanted to come back home at all. They'd distracted him from the cruel reality of the war he was serving in, had taken his mind off whatever creature he'd fought and killed.

But once they'd come with him to fight by his side, John hadn't been able to separate the two worlds quite as clearly anymore. He'd not been able to tune out the screams in his head and let go as soon as he walked in the door of whatever rundown motel or apartment or house they were staying at, hadn't been able to shed his skin in favor of spending some quality time with his boys.

When they'd started hunting together, everything became different. As soon as they'd come home, had taken care of their weapons and various injuries, each of them had withdrawn, each dealing individually with the madness they'd encountered, the pain they'd suffered. Even when Dean and Sam had been talking or playing music or watching TV, pretending that it had just been the usual day at the office the silence that had accompanied their actions or words had been louder than John thought he could bear.

And now, with only Dean left – unconscious, John was struck by how much he even missed the noise always surrounding his eldest, the simple presence that John had learned to take for granted.

John knew that he should take care of their weapons now, should get everything in order again, their arsenal in perfect condition, their duffels packed so they could take off again the second the need arose. It would keep him occupied a while longer, if nothing else, keep his head above water for a little while longer. But it would be in vain, anyways. He knew he'd screwed up.

And he still had absolutely no clue how to make this right again.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I know I am probably testing your patience with this story. It's so long and probably not as well-paced as it could be, but I never was one who could just end a story after the 'monster of the week' was dead. It's why I started writing fanfiction in the first place, so I could go further than just the kill...if that makes any sense at all. So, it would mean a lot, and I mean A LOT to me if you would just bear with me a little longer. As you know, I tend towards being a 'tiny bit' insecure about my writing, even though this story in particular helped me overcome that crushing fear of failure, but I still have setbacks every once in a while. _

_I realize that the last two chapters were maybe a little slow as far as the story developent goes, and I pray that doesn't keep you from reading and reviewing, if that's an option at all. I'd hate to think i'm boring you to death here..._

_Special thanks to **Nalanzu**, who betaed this and the last chapters for me - you've such a great help!_

_As a quick reply to **Lauren **I would like to say thank you for your reviews and for pointing out the typos and errors in grammar and such, I would just like to ask you to not make fun of me - or the mistakes I make. The sarcasm especially in your last review was a bit too much for me - because I can assure you that I do proof-read my chapters, more than once and over the course of a couple of days, usually. I agree that some of the things I write might look funny or strange to a native speaker, but I don't find it very nice to mock me for it. I can assure you I would never post anything I haven't read through as thoroughly as I possibly can. So, again, thanks for your input, really - I appreciate it and always try to improve my writing based on the criticism I get. I will make sure to fix the mistakes you pointed out to me soon!_

_alright, I hope you still enjoyed this chapter._

_Hope to hear from you again and see you next chapter!_


	21. Chapter 21

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 21**

He was floating.

It felt like that lake they'd once stopped at during one of their trips through southern Florida in the middle of a heat-wave. Dad had actually stopped and let them cool down at that crystal blue pool of cool wetness for an hour or two before they'd been stuck in the oven-like heat of the Impala again.

Dean had floated on his back, the sun on his face yet his body had remained comfortably cool as the water sloshed over him in lazy waves, carrying him effortlessly, taking that weight off his shoulders as if it was nothing at all. Even back then, some four or five years ago Dean had felt _heavy_ and the baggage hadn't necessarily gotten any lighter since.

Maybe he was there again now, Dean mused quietly, too comfortable still to open his eyes and just check.

Yeah, that had to be it.

He felt as unburdened as he hadn't in a long, long time.

Dad had to have taken them back there once he'd realized that Dean's body had just gotten too heavy, too much fucking weight added to the amount he'd been carrying around with him already, adding up and up and up until it threatened to smother him, to trip him and make him fall.

And god, had he fallen.

Dean remembered being so cold, inside and out, remembered his body quivering from the assault of forces that threatened to tear him apart and still holding himself together, if only barely so. He remembered pain beyond words and desperation so deep, so absolute it had almost paralyzed him. He remembered hope, too, but it had been smashed time and time again, stomped deeper and deeper into the ground until there was barely anything left anymore.

Dean remembered all that without any clear concept as to what had happened. All he knew was that he felt pretty comfortable right where he was. He had no plans of moving anytime soon.

He kept floating for a while, listening to the rhythmic sound of the waves brushing against the shore, musing about how it sounded almost like someone breathing right next to him. The slow, steady cadence felt strangely familiar and Dean gave in to the soothing pull far too easily, let it carry him away some more.

He kept drifting a little longer and as time wore on the comfortable feeling slowly but surely started to change. It wasn't anything Dean could name, wasn't sudden, nothing he could pin down to a certain point in time but suddenly the water felt less warm, felt less soft on his skin.

The soothing balm the water had provided turned into a coarse tickle, nothing painful or uncomfortable in the strict sense of the word, but there clearly was something wrong.

Dean furrowed his brows, still unwilling to give in quite as easily, refusing to be coaxed away from the peaceful memory. But the scratching sensation against his skin became annoying far too soon, turning into an almost burning ache which sent trails of goosebumps all over his limbs and into his very core. Slowly, a dull ache started to settle over the left side of his body from his ear down to the tips of his toes.

What the hell…?

With effort Dean managed to tear his eyes open, had to draw his brows up into his hairline almost until heavy and stubborn as hell lids finally chose to follow.

The sky above him was bright blue and blinding.

He managed to turn his head to the side and blinked sluggishly as he recognized his surroundings. The water he'd been floating on had somehow disappeared, had turned into the golden-green stalks of the wheatfield.

_God no, not again…_

With considerable effort Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, muscles trembling even though he wasn't in pain yet. He almost dreaded what the damn bird wanted to show him this time. Because this certainly could only be another damn vision, a foreseeing dream, just like the ones he'd had before. But, as much as it hurt Dean to admit it, he wasn't ready for the next fight, the next battle. Not yet.

Dean turned as far as his sitting position would let him, checking the field that stretched to the horizon and beyond with squinted eyes.

The crow was nowhere to be seen.

The air was absolutely still, the field not moving even though the swishing sound was still audible in the surrounding silence. It sounded almost like the field was breathing around him, a steady beat, lulling and worrying at the same time.

Wearily, Dean struggled to his feet, once again realizing that his chest and feet were bare, his leg free of the cast, his side and shoulder unblemished. He felt the pressure in the places he knew the injuries to be in, but the skin appeared to be untouched, unbroken.

"Some kind of piss-poor make belief, if I still know I'll be hurting when I wake up again…" Dean cursed quietly, keeping his left arm close to his body, just to be sure. He knew that this was nothing but a dream, knew he wouldn't remain in this state of blissful absence of pain for very long. But he had to make sure he read the signs right before he was plunged right back into the painful reality again, so he drew himself together, squared his shoulders a little more.

"Where the hell are you?" he called, his voice rough and a little hoarse, the words swallowed by the vast expanse of golden green surrounding him as soon as they left his mouth. The field remained deathly calm, the sky devoid of the crow's dark body.

What was this supposed to mean now?

"So what, you ran out of premonitions to lay on me? Or you simply tired of bullying me around, trying to make it appear as if it's all my own decision while in reality you're pulling all the damn strings like I'm some sick kind of puppet in this little show of yours?"

Dean turned himself in a slow circle, trying to back up the bravado he wanted to express with his words by keeping his voice even, unwavering. Inside, though, he was bristling, trembling from the effort it took to hold his body steady, to keep his hands from reaching up towards his face to try and rub the ticking sensation of unease from his face.

"Or does this mean it's over? Just like that - you just disappear on me, don't even say goodbye?" Dean mocked the emptiness around him but this time his voice cracked, catching in his throat in unfamiliar ways. He wasn't used to this uncertainty, the tingling nervousness that started in the base of his stomach to slowly crawl his way up to his throat.

He didn't know why he was so nervous, didn't know why he should be. After everything that he'd been through already, it couldn't really get much worse now, could it?

But maybe this was just it. The damn crow – spirit animal or whatever the hell else – dropped him off right where it had picked him up in the first place just to tell him it was over now. Dean's job done, his purpose served. Time to part ways again.

For a gut-wrenching second Dean couldn't help but see the damn pattern of his life here – everybody just _leaving_ him…

Dean closed his eyes and took a breath that stuttered and caught inside his chest but in the end accomplished what Dean had aimed for. It pushed the panic back down, reigned the terror of loss back in effectively. One second, then another, and Dean had the walls back in place – or maybe it was just a folding screen made of paper like he'd seen in some of those massage parlors. It was basically see-through, sure, but still it kept the most intimate secrets hidden to anyone daring to peek in, obscuring the facts so they could be explained away easily enough.

It would have to make do for the moment.

Dean dropped his head, closing his eyes to the sight of infinite _nothingness_ surrounding him and reached up a hand to scrub it over his weary face. The moment his hand covered his eyes, his lashes flattening against his cheeks, the vacuum around him was suddenly pierced by a sound.

It was just one note, really, a low, throaty croak that immediately turned Dean's insides into a tight knot, had him keep his hand almost frozen to his face for a second before dropping it down. He swirled around in one fluid motion, subconsciously taking notice of how easy moving was, in his dream at least, bristling at the thought of the constant struggle it had become to simply walk in real life.

His head spun with the motion long after his body had stopped already which was why it took a moment for him to focus on the figure standing across the clearing, all the way at the edge of his field of vision. There was no way he would have been able to distinguish the person standing there by just looking, the distance between them too great to make out any details at all. All he could see was a dark figure with indistinguishable features, but Dean didn't need to see the face to know who it was.

He would have known the person anywhere.

The figure stood tall even though his shoulders were slightly bent forward as if trying to make himself smaller than he really was, to seem less conspicuous.

"Sam…" the word was merely a breath of sound, easily swallowed by the oppressing silence encompassing the scene around him, seemingly permeating his very being.

Before Dean could think about it, he was moving, running through the field that still looked like a freeze-frame photograph. The stalks didn't even part when he dashed through them, he was simply melting through them as if they were nothing but air.

But every step that should have gotten him closer to his brother felt like it got slower, harder. It felt as if he was moving through molasses, the air seemingly getting thicker and thicker, parting more and more reluctantly to let him through. Every step he took seemed to bring back a tiny shred of pain to his body. It started with a dull throb in his shoulder, eating its way down and into his abdomen, crawling across his hip and down his thigh before wrapping like molten heat over his left leg.

The moment the full pain hit his lower limb, he went down. He thought he cried out as his body hit the ground hard, the wheat immediately sucking him under, swallowing him whole.

No…

"Sam!"

The darkness surrounding him was completely, suffocating in its intensity and Dean reached out a hand, fighting the paralyzing pain to reach up over his head, trying to part the thick blanket of stalks holding him prisoner, gripping him tight with greedy fingers.

"Sam, I'm here. Don't go. Please…"

His fingers breached the cover of darkness, a tiny sliver of bright blue sky slicing through the black surrounding him. Instinctively, Dean squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden intrusion of light.

When he opened them again the world chose this exact moment to tilt crazily, threatening to topple Dean right over its edge.

The sky above him changed into the safe house's off-white water-spotted ceiling, the ground he'd been lying on replaced by the slightly too soft and scratchy cushions of the living room sofa.

Dean waited until his vision settled on only one reality, his breath coming in short, quick bursts as the dots of bright blue sky still bouncing around the stained ceiling retreating all the way to the edges of his vision, coalescing with the black spots waiting there to pull him back under again.

Dean gulped in a shaking breath, then another before pushing himself into a sitting position with as subdued a groan of pain as he could manage. He immediately swiped bleary eyes across the room, his gaze settling on a makeshift bed on the floor next to the sofa. There was a bunched up pillow and a rumpled blanket on top of one of the bunk-bed's mattresses, indicating that someone had indeed slept there at some point. But the bedding was empty now.

For a second Dean could do nothing but blink at the setting, trying to get his memories back into decent order. He remembered – little dream-like sequences intersecting his feverish nightmares, waking up to find his father sleeping on the floor next to the sofa, laying sprawled all over the mattress. Sam always slept like that and for an insane, feverish second or two after opening his eyes Dean had thought that his brother had come back, finally.

But it had always been John who had been there whenever Dean as much as blinked himself into consciousness, always ready to reach out and touch Dean's shoulder, holding on to him when the dreams had become too vivid, too real.

Dad had been here, all this time – however long that really was. Dean somehow had lost all concept of time, lately.

But he was gone now.

Dean looked around the room, realizing that he was all alone in the house. The den seemed to be empty and he couldn't see into the bathroom, but the door was ajar and the room beyond dark and silent, so it was a safe bet John wasn't in there either.

A clump of cold dread started to form in the pit of Dean's stomach, warring for attention with the by now all too familiar pull of raw and tender flesh, of old wounds that seemed to once again be desperate to make themselves known to Dean with all the ferocity they could muster. Unconsciously, Dean ran his right hand over his chest and down towards his belly, fingertips brushing over the padded scars that were terribly sensitive to the touch still. He found no new stitches, but from the feel of it some of the already healed wounds had at least partially re-opened again, the skin around the edges hot and swollen once again. Well, it wasn't like he was going to win any beauty-competition with the scars he already carried.

His skin still tickled at the touch, but the telltale oversensitivity that he always felt when having a fever was heavily subdued now, so he had to be doing better – or was on his way there, at least.

Sitting up was awkward, the way his body folded when he pulled himself up with his cast-covered leg still stretched out on the sofa, his belly and side squeezed in uncomfortably.

Dean kept his hand pressed against his belly as if physically able to keep the pain inside, to hold himself together. He hurt, pain shivering in liquid waves through his body, but after a minute or two Dean was able to control the sea-sick-like nausea that resulted from the change in elevation, managed to once again open his eyes and look around the room.

His crutches lay propped against the side of the sofa and Dean was about to reach over he realized that his left arm was bound against his chest, a roll of gauze wrapped around his upper arm and torso keeping the arm more or less immobilized. However his dad had managed to do that Dean had no idea. But he wouldn't be able to walk like this, Dean realized, since he would not be able to hold on to the crutches, so the supporting bandages would have to go.

It took a while to unwind the bandages but once the arm was free Dean realized that it hadn't been such a great idea really. The arm seemed to hang from his shoulder with impossible weight, pulling at the raw wounds and tender flesh surrounding it.

Dean concluded that he wouldn't be able to handle the crutches like this, either, so he ended up holding the arm closely to his side, supporting both his shoulder as well as the upper parts of his torso.

It took almost superhuman effort to pull himself upright and onto his good leg from the low perch on the threadbare sofa with the aid of only the right crutch. But once standing more or less upright Dean was satisfied to notice that, while his head spun and his vision wavered, he remained standing at least.

The dream still lingered at the edges of Dean's awareness, lurking on the sidelines as if ready to jump him the moment he let down his guard. He tried not to think about it as he started hobbling his way across the room, the air feeling stuffy, his ears clogged up with the remnant of the deafening silence that had enveloped him just minutes ago.

It was slow going – the steady plop-swish his crutch and right leg made against the plastic floor like a steady beat that Dean concentrated on to keep himself moving. He felt parched, skin dry and pulled taut over his frame, bone and muscle rattling underneath.

His left leg was heavy, the cast wearing his side down like a lead-weight and for an insane second Dean thought how someone could drop him in the ocean now without having to bother with one of those cement-blocks around the feet to make him go under.

With that picture still lingering in his head, successfully blanking out all other thought for a moment Dean finally reached the door that separated the kitchen from the back porch. One part of the double door was open, only the screen door still in place, diffusing his view of the outside.

It seemed to be early morning, but of what day Dean had absolutely no idea. It was all the same to him. He wouldn't be leaving here anytime soon anyways.

Dean caught sight of his father just at the bottom of the steps that led into the yard.

John stood there clad in sweat-pants and a t-shirt, neither shoes nor socks adorning his bare feet.

It made him look strangely…vulnerable, almost, the way he was standing there bare-footed and dressed in pretty much his sleep-wear. Dean realized that he hadn't seen his dad "unready" to fight at any given time for a long, long time now. He seemed to always be focused, always ready for battle, sometimes even sleeping fully dressed as if he was prepared to get up and leave any second if necessary.

Dean wasn't sure what to make of this.

For some sick and disturbing reason the sight of his father standing in the yard, toes digging into the dirt underneath his feet made Dean feel safe almost instantly. Surely his dad wasn't going to walk out on him without his shoes on…right?

John stood with his back to the house, the fingers of his left hand seemingly absentmindedly picking at the wound at the back of his head while with the other he held a phone clutched close to his ear. Dean could make out the bandage adorning his father's right forearm, felt an inexplicable pang of guilt as he realized that he'd not been the one that had taken care of John's wounds for him.

John shifted seemingly casually, but Dean immediately perked up.

There was something about the way John stood there, about the way he carried himself, his back too straight, his fingers incessantly worrying the gash on the back of his head… Dean had studied his father's body-language all his life. He'd wanted to be just like him ever since he was a little boy, had tried to copy many of his movements, his habits and succeeded in adopting at least some of them for himself. It was the reason Dean didn't miss the way his father's posture wasn't as relaxed as he appeared at first sight.

A prickling trail of goosebumps chased down Dean's back, teasing the still fever sensitive skin and making the hair at the back of his head feel as if they literally were standing on end.

Because Dad on the phone could only mean one thing, really.

Dean couldn't believe it had taken him so long to pick up on it.

John never picked up his phone unless he was researching a hunt, waiting for news or information.

Dean took one shuffling step closer to the door so he could lean his shoulder against the wall next to the screen, using the sturdy support of the wooden frame to pull himself upright some more, to straighten his somewhat slouched pose while leaning on the crutch.

He transferred the walking aid to his left hand, nimble fingers closing around the handle tentatively as he reached out his good arm, ready to pull the door open when something held him back, his fingers stopping in mid-movement on their way towards the knob.

He couldn't be sure if he'd heard right, but Dean thought he heard his father talking about a hunt…about leaving.

"_Dean'll be fine on his own…"_

Dean's heart clenched, then roughly stuttered back to life inside his chest.

Dad was planning to leave again. They hadn't even cleared away the debris of their last hunt, and already John was planning on leaving again?

Dean had never been good at confronting his father, head on, had always reprimanded his little brother for being so ready to stand up to their father when he hadn't even heard the older Winchester's side of the story, always interpreting things the way they first appeared to him.

But this…

…this was something different altogether.

This was about finding out if he'd be left on his own once again.

And Dean was so damn tired of always just sitting around waiting, accepting his fate, swallowing down his own anger in favor of someone else's feelings.

He was done with being the one always pretending he was OK with whatever decision either his father or his little brother made without ever consulting him in the first place.

Dean was done hiding.

Decisively, Dean pushed his hand forward, swinging the screen door open with a high pitched creaking sound.

And when he lifted his face to meet his father's surprised gaze, he didn't fight the feelings of betrayal and abandonment to show in eyes, for once.

OoOoOoO

Dean's fever raged for the best part of the day and well into the night following their return to the safe house.

When John's butt fell asleep from sitting on the hard kitchen chair next to the sofa, he dragged one of the lumpy mattresses from the den and put it on the floor next to his sleeping son, not wanting to leave Dean alone in the room any longer than it took him to go to the bathroom. It was far from comfortable still, the mattress so old and lumpy he could as well have lain on the floor, John thought, but he'd slept in worse places than this. And he was as close to Dean as he possible could without actually laying on the sofa next him.

Whenever Dean woke up, John was there and while it didn't leave him with much rest, in the end, it still was worth it. Later, when the fever finally went and stayed down John woke from sleep a couple of times only to find Dean staring at him through bleary, fever-dazed eyes – just staring at him. It was disconcerting to say the least, but the kid didn't react to John's questions if he was alright and soon drifted off again.

After that, he slept like dead. He hardly ever moved, even, and even though it was a relief to his former thrashing and tossing, it didn't feel like such a good trade, John had to admit. Before, he'd at least had gotten a sign that Dean was still breathing, wasn't left with this constant panic that his son simply drifted off, leaving him. It was illogical, John knew that, because Dean didn't need the strain the fever put on his body, couldn't afford the stress his sluggish and incoherent movements put on his already battered body. But this silence…it once again weighed on John's nerves more heavily than his son's sounds of struggle had.

But now John was stuck with checking Dean's pulse every half hour, coaxing him to drink or listening to him breathing when there was nothing else he could do anymore.

When sleep finally claimed John it did so with an almost violent pull, and he didn't find it in him to fight it anymore. He hadn't realized how much his body craved the rest until he finally, consciously chose to pay attention to it.

John slept so deeply, at first he didn't recognize the sound that sluggishly penetrated the fog clouding his brain and slowing his senses. It started with a faint, far-off melody that he took as part of his dream, background music to a strangely distorted dream about wolf and women and a flock of scavengers circling lazily over the gutted body of a black dog lying in the middle of a huge garden filled with welted roses.

The melody ended, then started again and it took about four or five tries until John realized that he actually heard his phone ringing.

He was up and on his feet before the action even registered, was moving towards the table where he'd stashed both their mobiles before he realized his legs were actually moving. As John reached the table he heard Dean stir in reaction to the disturbance, rolling his head sluggishly against the cushion and mumbling something underneath his breath.

John didn't understand what he was saying, praying that he still was sleeping too deeply to really wake up.

The kid still needed the rest, needed every precious minute he could possibly squeeze out.

John grabbed the phone off the table and pressed the green button that accepted the call quickly. Before he had the phone up and at his ear, he was already moving through the kitchen's back entrance, walking out of the house as quietly as possible.

"Yes," John snapped at the unsuspecting caller, automatically annoyed at whoever dared to interrupt their much-needed healing time, mad at himself for not turning the phone off, letting whoever called go straight to voicemail.

The word left him in a rush, on an exhale as he stepped out into what he recognized as the early morning light of the new day, easing the screen door shut behind him before crossing the two steps to the stairs that led down into the ill-kept yard. A warm breeze ruffled through his messy hair and the feeling of dry grass underneath his bare feet was strangely intoxicating.

"Hey, John,"

The voice on the other end of the line quickly rid John of the last remnants of sleep that still clung to his brain.

"Caleb," John breathed, shoulder automatically squaring, trying to infuse strength into his voice with the tensing of his muscles.

He had to prepared for this, no matter the time or the situation. He had to _always_ be ready.

His right hand still clutching the phone John raised his left arm up to run slightly shaking fingers through his hair and over his skull until the movement was stopped when his fingers came in contact with the swollen edges of the wound at near his neck. Unconsciously he started picking at the scabs of dried blood still clinging to his hair and skin, reveling the pain the touch caused, knowing it would help him focus, to sharpen his brain.

"You Ok, John? I have kinda been expecting your call, although I have to admit I'm surprised you even picked up. You've been playing pretty hard to get lately…"

John shifted on his feet, dry grass and dusty earth pressing up between his toes.

"Well, I've been busy. What is it you want?" he interrupted his friend's teasing banter, cutting to the chase. He wanted to turn back time, never pick up the damn phone like he apparently had a history of doing when he wasn't in the mood – or the condition to take on yet another hunt.

There was the beat of a pause as Caleb apparently digested John's bluntness, no doubt contemplating if he should call his old friend on it or just let it pass. Luckily, he seemed to decide on the second option.

"I heard someone took care of a werewolf, down near Perry." Caleb said calmly.

John blinked in irritation and surprise.

"Yeah well…only that it wasn't a werewolf but a skinwalker. But we took it out alright," he said, not sure if he should be flattered or concerned that the news had travelled this fast.

Caleb stayed silent, so John barged on ahead, suddenly uneasy about staying out of the house too long, wanting to be at his son's side again when he woke up.

"That the only reason you called, to compliment me on a successful hunt?" he asked, fully aware of how snappish he sounded, knowing that Caleb didn't deserve that. None of what made John lose his patience lately was anyone's fault but his own, really.

"Well, actually no. Bobby called me a couple of days ago. Told me about your car still waiting in that lot where you left it some weeks ago to get it fixed after you ran over the chupacabra. Looks like you've got one of the old man's fake numbers on the insurance form, so they called him and asked him if he wanted to sell it, since nobody seems to want it anymore…"

Jeez – the truck. John had almost forgotten about it, what with everything else going on.

"Right, the truck," was all John had to offer, thinking furiously how much he could tell Caleb, how much he _should_ tell him. Because, ultimately, Bobby's would get wind of it, and John had a pretty good idea what the other hunter would have to say about the current mess John had gotten both himself and his eldest into.

Bobby always had had a special relationship with both his boys but Dean especially had apparently triggered the old man's protective instincts. He had been protective towards both Dean and Sam in ways that John had found slightly irritating, considering that they were talking about _his_ boys here.

They'd had a falling out about something well over a year ago. John still remembered the fight he and Bobby had gotten into, right after Sam had left. They hadn't talked since and Dean hadn't so much as mentioned Bobby's name so far, but John knew the kid missed the older hunter fiercely. Dean had always looked forward to the days or weeks or sometimes even months they'd spent at his junkyard.

John knew that Bobby still cared deeply for his boys – and maybe even a little bit for him, too. If it wasn't for both their egos they would most likely still be friends – or at least still talking. But John always had been thankful, despite turning away from his old friend when he had stuck his nose in matters that were none of his business, knowing that both Sam and Dean had someone to turn to in case he himself wouldn't make it back to them, one day.

"John, you still there? Is everything alright?"

Caleb's voice ripped John out of his thoughts and he momentarily blinked into the early morning sun, swallowing the lump that just wouldn't leave his goddamn throat anymore.

_We're so far from alright, I can't even see it from where we're standing..._

"We've been…kinda laid up here for a while," John trailed off, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling the stubbly growth of beard tease his tongue.

Caleb was silent for a beat.

"How's Dean?" he finally asked, a low rumble of worry making the question sound like a statement, almost. As if he knew damn well that something was wrong.

John dropped his chin to his chest, his hand slipping from the back of his head to hang limply at his side.

"He's…" John was groping for words to describe the situation appropriately without giving too much away. First, because he knew Dean wouldn't appreciate being exposed like that to a fellow hunter and secondly because John was too ashamed to admit that he'd let it all happen in the first place.

"We ran into a black dog – two, actually, and then there was that werewolf that really was a skinwalker. He got a little messed up," and that easily had to be the understatement of the year. "But he's hanging in there. You know Dean…"

"Too stubborn to go down**,"** Caleb conceded, knowingly, and John nodded to himself.

"Yeah. Looks like we will be stuck here for a while, though."

It was as close to an admission of how serious the situation really was as John was going to offer, and apparently Caleb knew that, too. John could hear him take a deep breath and he could basically hear the wheels in his friends head turning.

"Those leads you had me check out, about The Demon…they dead ended," Caleb finally offered, and John felt like a giant boulder had been lifted off his shoulders all of a sudden.

He loved his son more fiercely than he could ever express, was planning on sitting this out with him, to see him get better. But there was this other need, this urge that had been so deeply ingrained into his very being by now – the need to find Mary's killer. As if in finding it and killing it he could atone for all the faults he'd committed, all the wrong he'd done to his boys. As if by extinguishing the force that had driven him all those years would give him time to make for all the time he'd lost.

He knew that, no matter how much he wanted to stay with Dean, how much every fiber of his body needed to stay with his ailing son, he still wouldn't be able to turn down a lead, a chance to kill the thing that had torn his family to pieces. Even if it meant leaving behind the one person still sticking with him, despite all the shit he'd pulled.

As much as he wanted to hunt the demon down, right now he knew he owed it to both Dean and especially Mary to step back down for a little while at least.

"Ok, alright. So…we figure out something else," John said, shifting his weight, feeling tired muscles and aching joints beg him to lie back down. "That lead I told you about in Washington State - we should take another look at that guy, see if we can come up with an identity after all. Maybe we can talk to him…"

He didn't feel like he had the right to ask his friend to do this for him, yet again, following another lead in a personal war that Caleb had no ties to other than the overall fight for good and against evil. So he didn't ask, but sure enough his friend caught his meaning.

"Yeah, how about I look into this some more. You guys stay where you are. I got this hunt I need to take care of. It's not that far from where you're staying so maybe I'll pay you a visit once I'm done, see if I can maybe take you to pick up your truck."

"You need help with the hunt? I'm sure Dean will be fine for a couple of days…" John asked, knowing that he needed to ask, hoping that Caleb would not take him up on the offer.

"No, that one I can handle by myself. You stay with your boy, tie him down if you need to."

John breathed a sigh of relief, glad beyond words that he hadn't been forced to choose. Because, honestly, right this moment, with Dean still out and so far from alright, John had no idea what he would done if Caleb had indeed asked for his help.

"Alright, if you're sure…"

A high-pitched creaking sound at his back had John whirling around, all senses, no matter how tired and beaten he was instantly on high alert. He didn't have any weapons on him, his hand immediately going to the waistband of his sweats only to come up empty.

It took him only a second to realize that a weapon was needless though.

Dean stood in the partly open doorway, the screen held open by his shoulder, right hand gripped tightly around the plastic handle of his crutch while the other arm he held close to his body. He looked…drawn, hollowed out, almost.

His posture was slightly stooped, shoulders rolled forward as if folding underneath a weight John couldn't see but knew to be there – now more so than ever. He was wearing his sweats only, his chest heaving as if the short walk from the sofa to the back door had exerted him completely. His cheeks were sunken, eyes deep and shadowed by those ridiculously long lashes, his forehead drawn into the ever present frown of pain, the crinkles around his eyes that used to be laugh-lines suspiciously looking like worry-lines by now.

The arm that carried his weight with the help of the crutch was shaking slightly, as did his good leg and the pants John had so painstakingly pulled up his narrow hips just hours ago hung low on his waist.

The moment Dean raised his eyes slightly, chin still dipped low and the vibrant green of his eyes met John's brown ones, John realized what his son must have heard – or what he thought he'd heard. Knowing Dean – and knowing John's luck in general, he'd only heard parts of the conversation, had drawn his own conclusions. He'd heard John offering his help on a hunt, just hours after messing up the last one, hours after promising to stay with his son until he got better.

"Dean, wait," John tried to placate, lowering the phone and taking a step towards his son.

Dean made to move back into the house when suddenly he froze, all movement halting, his head suddenly snapping around to look behind his back, reacting to something inside the house John couldn't hear or see.

The movement was controlled, fluid, devoid of any pain, any stiffness of muscles or marred by fevered chills. John immediately realized that something was wrong.

He realized he'd stopped breathing, was about to drag in a breath, tell Caleb that he'd call him back when Dean's head whipped back around lightening fast, his formerly shadowed eyes wide open, all pupils and bright green, latching onto his father with alarming clarity.

John saw Dean's body tense, saw his shoulder roll back from the doorjamb, back into the house, shifting the crutch into his good hand as he did so. His stance, albeit still compromised by his battered and fever-wrecked body, was one of high alarm and at the same time it was the stance of a hunter, of being ready to fight.

He mouthed two words that John was barely able to hear but could practically feel coming from his own mouth as his lips automatically mimicked his son's expression, trying to comprehend was he was seeing.

_Front door._

There was someone at the door.

John didn't bother to say goodbye to Caleb and simply ended the call before crossing the distance to the porch with a couple of long strides. He hauled himself of the four steps with agility born out of year of hunting, of being able to push his body past its own tiredness, its own pain. John shoved at the creaking screen-door, rushing into the room to find his son standing a couple of steps in front of him in the section that divided the open kitchen from the living room, facing the house's front entrance with keen concentration.

He looked poised and ready, despite being anything but, and John was acutely aware that neither of them had any kind of weapon on them. Dean's eyes never left the front door, pinning the doorknob as if by sheer will he could force whoever was out there to either reveal himself or turn around and leave them be.

John heard a scuffle from outside, someone fumbling with the ancient lock but not being particularly quiet about it.

One long stride brought him to the kitchen counter, his hand automatically abandoning the phone and closing around the hilt of the large kitchen knife, pulling it out and holding it at the ready. It might not have been very sharp, and while John had always preferred hand on hand combat to wielding or even throwing a knife, he knew he'd be able to put the weapon to good use. If anything, it would slow the intruder down until either he or Dean could reach the duffel with their guns.

As the front door opened with an almost ominous creak John pushed his body between the entrance and his son, intent on standing between him and whoever would walk in on them.

This time, he would not let anything get past him.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN: _

_I owe all of you a big thanks for your wonderful support and the awesome, encouraging reviews. I am very much aware of how lucky I am to have found this site - and all of you, who make me feel less like i'm a freak for writing these stories. _

_I owe another big thanks to Nalanzu, who beta'ed this chapter for me, but all mistakes that are still in there will remain mine, since i can't help it but change stuff even after she corrects the parts I sent her._

_Also, thanks to all those who put this story on their favorites without reviewing - this way I never get to thank you in person - which is why i'm doing it right here._

_The next week is a very busy one for me, and i'm pretty sure i won't manage to post next weeks chapter in time, since it's nowhere near done yet. I know it sucks, especially with the cliffie I left you with and all, but I hope you'll forgive me and not hold it against me. i'm off the week after this one, so I'll have plenty of time to write - and hopefully make this as good as possible._

_i'm eagerly awaiting your reactions to this cliffie, that's for sure. I would like to know what you think and if i'm on the right track the way I wanted to continue this... Your reviews, i firmly believe, make me a better writer - and they sure as hell make writing and posting a whole lot easier on me!_

_thank you all so much and take care!_


	22. Chapter 22

_I'm so sorry for the long wait. But I got the chapter done on saturday as promised, so I hope you're not holding it against me too much..._

_Since I'm terribly nervous - here's the next chapter, hope you'll enjoy._

**Crows in the Weatfield**

**Chapter 22**

30 seconds had never felt so damn long.

Dean stood stock still, staring at the door as if by sheer will he'd be able to force whoever was trying to steal inside to turn around and leave again.

He knew that it was ridiculous, that it could be anybody from the house's actual owner to one of the other hunters residing here from time to time. But something inside told him that this wasn't just a damn coinfcidence, that nobody else had chosen just this moment in time to rest up here as well.

When he'd set out to go after his father, Dean had been fuelled by sheer will and utter determination, had been driven by the _need_ to find his father, to safe him. But he'd used up every last bit of his stamina and strength, had left it in those woods, had bled out the last particles of it on their drive back home and during his father's painful ministrations. There was no way he would be able to muster even one tiny fraction of that energy again in the near future.

But he wouldn't let whoever would walk in that door now see it, at least not right away. Dean knew he wouldn't withstand closer inspection, but he'd do his hardest to prolong detection of his more than apparent weakness for as long as he possibly could. It was all about appearance, about looking like more of a threat than he actually was. Dean was damn good at this game, had years of experience on his side. He knew how to play this part better than anyone.

Dean garnered every last ounce of strength, every iota of willpower he still found somewhere in the recesses of his exhausted body and mind, using it to stand as tall as his injuries would allow. He tried to school his face into a well known yet somehow impossibly hard to accomplish mask of calm, tried to rid his features, his whole posture of the weakness he knew to be advertised there in brightly lit letters.

No matter what happened, Dean wouldn't allow himself to break, not just now, not again – and certainly not in front of whoever would walk in on them any second now. He just hoped, prayed almost, that his dad had understood his warning, had the quickness of mind and body to come and stand by him, because, no matter how good his intentions, how awesome his act – there was no way Dean would be able to deceive anybody for long. He was at the end of his rope, out of breath and as ready to admit defeat as he'd ever been. Even he couldn't play pretend forever…

The doorknob wriggled slightly, whoever was trying to break in apparently not the most skilled lock-pick in the world, and Dean felt himself tense, felt muscles in his shoulder and belly groan in protest as he straightened a little more.

Only seconds now, and the door would swing open, and Dean was standing there, unable to take one single step in any direction at all, unable to do much more to defend himself than swing the one crutch he still had a hold of – knowing full well that, the second he lifted it from the ground, he'd be going down.

He clutched his left arm against his chest and side, unconsciously protecting the weakest part of his body while clenching the fist of the same hand almost compulsively, gripping an imaginary knife. He intensely missed the familiar hilt of his bowie-knife in his weak yet determined grip. For the beat of a second Dean contemplated abandoning the crutch in favor of a more effective weapon but he knew he wouldn't reach his duffel in time, wouldn't even make it to the kitchen counter only two feet to his right to get the big kitchen knife he knew to lie there. And he also wouldn't make it to the sofa all the way across the room to grasp his second crutch, his shoulder be damned, to at least give him the hint of hope to be able to move without falling flat on his face.

All those attempts would accomplish would be to leave him in an even more vulnerable position, would leave him wide open, physically as well as emotionally, to the unwelcome visitor.

So, Dean stood still, barely breathing.

The air in the room seemed to have lost all sound, oppressing silence seemingly enveloping Dean's very being and he felt as if he'd been dumped right into the middle of his dream again, only that this, most definitely, was very real. He felt the muscles in his stomach twist and jitter in reaction to his growing dread, felt the painful jolt of injured flesh and bruised muscles as it pulled at even this tiny and involuntary motion.

It couldn't have been more than 30 seconds, tops, since he'd heard the first sign of someone working the lock and Dean heard the latch give. At the same instant he felt a rush of air at his back, was aware of his father's tall form rushing into the room and pushing himself between Dean and the front door.

The way he stood there, tall and strong, no trace of the last days ordeals reflected in his stance Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration as John blocked his son's view of the house's entrance, couldn't help the sharp bite of irritated humiliation as he realized what his father was doing.

It felt strangely comforting at the same time as it felt wrong. Nobody should have to stand between him and whatever danger was out there, nobody. It just wasn't right, wasn't the way it was supposed to be. It used to be Dean being the deflector, the protector, the one to stand between his family and whoever the fuck chose to pick them as their target, dodging the bullet that threatened the ones he loved the most. Not the other way around…

Dean swallowed down the indignant remark that built on his lips, fastening his gaze onto his father's strong back as he heard the door begin to creak open. John rolled his shoulders, relaxed them in that way that made him appear even more lethal, more dangerous than any outright coil of muscle ever would. Dean had enough time to realize that his dad had had the presence of mind to go for the kitchen knife, at least, saw the strong grip he had on the wooden hilt, the ease with which his father's hand weighed the weapon, projecting to whoever was willing to look closely that he would know how to use it.

Dean drew comfort from that, at the same time as it made his own hands ache for a weapon even more fiercely. But as long as Dad had it under control…he would defend them, would stand by him, unquestioningly.

At that thought, Dean was able to draw a little more air into his lungs, managed to swallow back the groan of pain as his ribs protested the movement, ignoring the fact that his left leg got heavier and heavier, made him list to the side. With Dad there, they would be able to do this.

He heard the door creak open, heard whoever it was take a step inside, a heavy weight making the wooden floorboards underneath the newcomers feet creak ominously.

Dean's view was still obscured by his father's broad back and he saw his dad's muscles shift underneath the thin fabric of his white t-shirt, saw his shoulders squaring and rolling, saw the muscles in John's biceps bunch as his hand tightened around the knife. John sucked in a breath as Dean struggled to shuffle out of his shadow, his body reluctant to cooperate.

For a moment, everything was almost deadly quiet, the silence only broken by the mad chirping of one lonely cricket just outside the kitchen window.

"Dad," Dean breathed out in frustration and request alike, the word eerily echoing back to him from the other end of the room, as if his someone had spoken the same word at exactly the same time in precisely the same tone of voice.

He moved the crutch forward, shifting his weight onto his right arm and shoulder and dragged his good leg after when he heard his dad ask:

"What are you doing here?"

The sound of John's voice was all wrong, rough and spiked with both confusion and…yeah, what else? Dean couldn't quite place the sound of it, was too focused to not lose his precarious balance as he shuffled around his father to face the man who stood as still as a statue in the small space between the still open door and the threshold to the living room.

It was only when Dean finally lay eyes on their visitor that he was able to interpret his dad's tone of voice pretty damn well.

OoOoOoO

To say John was shell-shocked when the door finally opened to reveal their unexpected visitor would have been an understatement. He positively lost all control he had over his body, muscles still locked in place yet his limbs suddenly felt as if they were detached from his body, like they were useless appendages of a wooden marionette.

And still he didn't move, didn't believe his eyes, because in his line of business, with the things he'd seen…they could be talking skinwalker, or shapeshifter or…

"Dad,"

The word wrapped around him from all sides, spoken by both his son's, an almost overwhelming sense of love and fierce ache at the same time almost making John dizzy.

It was Sam.

No supernatural being, no projection of will or imagination of his probably still slightly concussed brain.

Just Sam.

The immediate sense of relief at seeing his son, safe, immediately vanished though as he saw the undoubtedly shocked expression on the face of his youngest, felt the almost searing presence of his other son at his back.

Dean was still behind him, apparently still obscured from view from Sam, whose eyes were solely on John, his face bearing a mixture of the same emotions John felt racing through his own mind. John felt Dean shifting behind him, knew without a doubt that he wouldn't stay hidden behind his back much longer. Dean had never been one to be restrained for long.

"What are you doing here?" John finally choked out, his voice hoarse, almost, but he was surprised at the softness with which the sentence that could have been interpreted as gruffness came out, dampening the words, making them sound almost gentle instead.

More than one and a half years he hadn't seen his son – or hadn't stood face to face with him, rather. He had seen him from afar, hidden like a pervert behind a tree or around a corner, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Melting into the background, just like he'd taught his boys, as if staking out one of the monsters they were hunting, only that he'd been sfpying on his own son, making sure that he was still alright, still safe. Making sure that nothing was threatening the freedom he had hard-won for himself, as if it wasn't rightfully his in the first place.

More than 19 months; John couldn't believe how short and long the time seemed, how much Sam had changed. He'd grown, if that was even possible, maybe not in height but in appearance, and while he still stood with his shoulders rolled forward to diminish his size there was a new bearing that seeped from his innermost core.

He was…all grown up…

Sam didn't answer John's question, just stared at him in silent shock. It hurt, a deep, sharp pain right in the chest that his son didn't come running to him like he had when he'd still been little, throwing himself into his father's arms and squeezing tight. Even though John knew that these times were long past, that too many things had been said between them to ever make those times return again, it still hurt more than he'd ever thought possible.

Sam still remained mute, his lips working on the words that he was seemingly unable to release and John was about to ask him again when he saw Sam's focus shift away from his face towards his right side all of a sudden. It took about a second, maybe two before Sam's eyes widened impossibly, his brows drawing up, his lips parting ever so slightly as he drew in a startled breath. John saw his son's right hand clamp into a sudden fist, the pin he'd used to pick the lock no doubt pressing painfully into the soft skin of his palm.

John felt rather than saw Dean's presence at his side, the all too familiar air of exhausted yet determined energy, an almost painful aura surrounding his eldest like a dark shadow that seemed to follow his eldest wherever he went, that wouldn't disappear even at night or in the dark. A constant presence that was suffocating in its intensity, that made the air stuffy and thick and painful to breathe.

It wasn't hard to tell the exact moment his sons eyes met, the second brutal understanding dawned in Sam's eyes as they darkened even further, went from murky grayish-green to a deep, rich brown.

John turned his head to the side just in time to see Dean step up besides him, moving out of his father's shadow painfully slow.

It took Dean maybe a second longer to catch on with the situation, but his reaction was so pure, so unabashedly visible, it totally shattered John's resolve, that had him momentarily closing his eyes at the instant and absolute change in his son's features.

The way Dean's face softened all of a sudden, his brows relaxing while rising on his forehead, the ever pinched expression bleeding from his face so quickly, John was left dumbstruck for a second. He hadn't even realized how different his son looked when he wasn't in constant pain…

Dean's lips parted a little, the corners of his lips tipping up into a tired yet open smile.

Not the cocky, devil may care smile that had been the only smile John had been able to witness lately, no superficial mask Dean had liked to throw at his father when he'd waned to make him believe that he was alright, fine, awesome.

Just a genuine, heartfelt smile.

It was the first, true kind of emotion, besides the very painfully real display of pain and fear that John had seen from his son in weeks, maybe even months.

It felt like a punch in the guts to see how easily Sam could still put that smile on his brother's face, even after all this time.

"Sam," his brother's name slipped from Dean's lips like it had been there all along, all this time, lingering dangerously close to the surface yet held back by forces that seemed impossible to be reigned in anymore.

The relief of simply seeing his brother wafted off of Dean like something palpable, seemed to ease the tension that had been radiating off Dean in constant pulsing waves for months now, getting stronger and stronger especially during the past month's ordeal. But as the tension slipped away from his face, it simultaneously left the rest of his body, too, his muscles which had been locked rigid before suddenly trembling and altogether faltering.

John saw the tremor that started in Dean's leg, sneaking its way up towards his belly before crawling towards the upper portion of his torso. The arm which held the one crutch, the only thing keeping him upright at the moment shivered a little, the little plastic stopper at the bottom squealing against the cheap linoleum floor.

John moved towards Dean's side, ready to support him as he'd done so many times in the past weeks, to keep him from falling. He was taken by surprise as suddenly Sam's tall body slipped lithely, effortlessly between them, reaching for Dean and steadying him with just a touch, big yet gentle hands holding on to his right shoulder.

As if that touch was enough, releasing a last reserve of energy from somewhere deep inside Dean swayed but remained standing. But his eyes slipped closed momentarily, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a mock grin that was expression of exasperation rather than humor. He was trembling visibly now, body locked tight and seemingly unable to move anywhere but down, yet Dean still refused to follow its call, now more so than before, to give in to the inevitable.

He didn't want to break in front of his brother, had always seen it as his most important task to stay strong for Sam's benefit, to never show his brother how much he truly hurt. John knew of Dean's need to remain invincible, had honored it out of respect as much as convenience.

It just was so much easier to look away and pretend to not notice the pain his son was in than to step up and face it head on…

Sam's eyes never left Dean's face anymore and John involuntarily took a step back, the situation suddenly almost intimate, his boys removed into their own little bubble again, needing only each other, feeding off each other in ways that John had never quite understood. Seeing the ease with which they slipped into their old relationship again, at least for the moment, shutting him out in the process was almost too much to bear.

Sam's left hand was still gripping Dean's right shoulder but his other hand hovered uncertainly over his big brother's other shoulder as he saw the bruises, saw the bandages that were marred by small blotches of blood.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam whispered, ducking down a little, adapting his height to his brother's slightly stooped form, bringing his eyes almost level with Dean's.

"Yeah…" Dean coughed, eyes still shut tight, arm wrapped around his body like it was the only thing holding him together.

"You need to sit down," Sam pressed, gently nudging Dean's good shoulder to get him to look up, to not lock himself faway further in his absurd need to stay strong in front of his brother.

"Can he walk on that leg?" Sam asked, addressing John without looking at him, his voice slipping into the colder tone he'd taken with John whenever he'd blamed his father for something that had gone wrong.

John felt a pang of hurt, so deep and pure at that tone once again being addressed at him, it almost shattered him right then and there.

"Dad, can he put weight on his leg?" Sam urged, harsher now, snapping his eyes over towards John quickly before averting them again.

"No, no he can't." he finally said, almost defensively, watching as his youngest absorbed the information with a visible frown.

"Here, let me help," Sam finally said towards Dean, his voice soft again as he slipped his shoulder against Dean's left one, an arm snaking around his brother's back to steady him.

Dean's lips pinched in humiliation, but he seemed to accept the fact that he needed the help, wouldn't get anywhere without it.

John moved towards Dean's injured side, ready to help, when Sam's head snapped towards him, eyes once again hard and dark and basically spitting fire.

"I got him,"

For once, John didn't find it in him to fight his youngest, so he quietly stood back, watching both his sons – _both his sons_ – make their way across the living room and towards the den.

He didn't manage to avert his eyes from his boys' backs till they rounded the corner into the small sleeping quarters. He knew he should grant them the privacy, should let them be at least for the time being, to settle things he they needed to talk about. He knew he had no right following them – after all it had been John who had pushed them apart in the first place.

But in the end the need to stay close to them, to _his boys_, overrode any thought of decency or reason. He knew the time he would have with them was numbered. And John wanted to hold onto them both for as long as he could.

OoOoOoO

This, most definitely, wasn't the reunion Dean had been hoping for.

For all the times in the past 19 months or so he'd envisioned this situation in all varieties. He'd gone from imagining going to Stanford himself and _getting_ Sam back to his little brother coming back on his own accord, looking rueful and apologetic, vowing that he'd never do something stupid like leaving them ever again.

But this – this had never been part of the plan.

The initial surge of happiness he had felt when seeing his little brother had soon been dampened when he'd realized that he wouldn't be able to fool Sam any longer, that he'd pick up on the lies Dean had told him over the phone a couple of days ago without any problems. Back then, even though hoping that Sam would someday come back to him, Dean hadn't thought that he actually would, or he probably would have told him not to come. Not right away at least.

Because Sam shouldn't see him in his current condition, nobody should.

Dean knew he looked bad, and he knew how his brother reacted to seeing Dean hurt. He'd start blaming their dad immediately, before knowing the whole story and even when he did get the details he'd still find a way to twist them around and make the whole situation another mistake of John Winchester, like he always had.

Dean didn't want them to fight. He finally, finally had his family back together, and he didn't want to spend the time they had listening to them going at it again, throwing words at each other that neither of them would ever be able to take back again.

For the time being though, Sam was silent.

Dean realized they were still moving, Sam's shoulder solid against his wounded one and while the touch hurt, in a strictly physical sense, it still was the most comforting thing Dean had felt in a long time. He still couldn't get over the wonder of his baby brother being there with him. Back where he rightfully belonged…

Dean lifted his head a little, casting his eyes up while keeping his lids lowered, watching his little brother's profile from the corner of his eyes. He felt like he couldn't stop watching Sam because if he did, he would maybe be gone again, another one of the crow's painfully cruel visions.

But Sam was there, he was there. In the flesh and _right there_ next to Dean, helping him walk.

Sam was walking slightly bent forward in order to adapt to Dean's shorter built and stooped walk. His head was down, but Dean had no problem detecting the hard set of his brother's jaw, the way his lips were tight against his teeth, that nerve in his jaw twitching in a nervous rhythm. His brows were drawn together in a brooding frown and while he hadn't said a word Dean knew that they were probably tumbling over each other inside that head of his, soon to be released with their full weight and accusations.

Dean dreaded that moment as much as he yearned it, knowing his brother's words could cut deep, hurt him and Dad to the core, but at the same time wanting to hear Sam's voice so badly it almost hurt. Next to his actual, physical presence it had been Sam's voice Dean had missed the most in the months that he'd been gone. Dad had never talked much to begin with, ever since Mom, but once Sam had left his words had been even sparser, had been missed all the more since they would have been needed so desperately.

Dean hated silence. It made him hear too much...

Before Dean realized where they were going they were inside the den and while everything in Dean had fought to not stay there the night before he now succumbed to the confined quarters all too willingly. This was much more private and as long as Sam was here with him…

John had stripped the top-bunk of the bunk bed off its mattress, which left them with the choice of the bottom bed or the single one. Without giving it a second thought, Sam steered them towards the free-standing bed to the right side of the door. He let Dean set the pace, stood next to him as he deposited the crutch on the floor before moving out of the way to let Dean settle down onto the mattress. He was intent to help, but Dean wouldn't have any of it, his pride too wounded by having to be practically carried across the house already.

So he shot Sam a look that told him to back off, to stay back and let him handle this himself. Sam reluctantly did as he was asked, but he stayed close by, practically hovering at Dean's side, hands extended and ready to grasp him, to hold onto him whenever the situation demanded it.

Dean dropped his head, determined to not let his little brother see how much it bothered him – how much everything bothered him right now. Weakness of body and mind wasn't something Dean dealt with well, and he knew that it was useless to pretend when he so clearly - and for the world to see - was everything but fine. But he needed this, needed at least this tiny shred of dignity. And he could have kissed Sam for honoring the border, albeit grudgingly so.

As Dean lowered himself onto the mattress, his exhausted body intent to pull him down faster, he fought to center himself, to get as much of his act together as he would be able to muster. It wasn't just about letting Sam see how hurt he truly was – that was pretty much impossibly to cover up. But it was about not letting Sam see how fucking deep the pain went.

How broken he really was.

When he was settled onto the mattress, back straight against the headboard of the bed and struggling to pull his impossibly heavy cast-covered leg into a position that wouldn't strain his tender side and hip too much, Sam's resolve finally broke.

He made short work of gently lifting the leg so it lay pretty much straight out, pulling one of the two pillows over and stuffed them underneath Dean's knee and calf, bedding it softly.

"You good like this?" he asked quietly and Dean nodded, allowed his head to tilt back against the wall for a moment, garnering his strength.

His shoulder ached into his teeth and the leg felt as if he'd been up and running around on it for hours on end when in reality it had barely been 15 minutes.

Sam hovered over Dean for a second, waiting for him to look up and acknowledge his obvious need to talk, but Dean refused to give in just now, watching his brother out of the corner of his eyes while trying to determine how much trouble he was in. Judging from the look of barely restrained exasperation in Sam's eyes, his whole posture, he'd be in a world of trouble.

Sam gave up hovering over him, stepping back from the bed and standing there, seemingly lost, in the small space between the two beds for a moment. He seemed to be chewing on his lip, positively bristling inside and apparently Dean's condition was the only thing that kept him from blowing right up in his face.

Slowly, Dean lifted his head and pulled himself up a little straighter.

"You keep looking like that, you're going to pull something." He finally offered, aiming for his best light-hearted tone, but the flash of cold fire that immediately flooded Sam's eyes at his teasing barb had him know that he wouldn't get off that easily.

"You lied to me." Sam's voice was shaking with barely suppressed accusation and Dean immediately felt himself draw back at the look of hurt and anger flashing in his little brother's eyes as he directed them straight at him.

Dean wasn't used to those emotions being directed at him, not from Sam at least, had watched them aimed at his father more times than he could count but had never thought…

"Sam," he started, but Sam cut him off with a curt shake of his head. He started to pace, only two steps to his right, then two to his left since there wasn't more room in the close confinement of the den, wouldn't allow him a wider range of motion.

"I can't believe…you _lied_ to me, Dean. I asked you if you were alright and you told me you were fine,"

"Sam," Dean tried again, pulling himself up a little farther, ignoring the wave of pain that washed through his belly and side at the motion. But Sam didn't seem to hear him, was too lost in his ranting accusations, too lost in his own feelings of betrayal.

"I mean, I get Dad shutting me out, I do. He made it pretty damn clear that once I was gone, I had no business coming back into your lives ever again. But you? Dean, when you called, you told me that you were fine…"

"Sam, STOP."

And finally, he did stop. He stopped pacing, stood there staring at Dean as if he saw him for the first time. Dean sat, panting, the simple act of yelling at his brother to stop ranting enough to leave him breathless. He'd sneaked one arm around his chest again, supporting his still tender ribs, his right hand instinctively reaching up to brace the wounds in his shoulder as if physically being able to keep the pain inside.

Sam's eyes once again widened as they took in Dean's beaten form, and Dean saw moisture gather in the corners of the so familiar hazel, saw Sam swallow convulsively. For a minute, neither of them said anything, Sam just standing there, looking so lost and encompassed in his own anger Dean couldn't keep the guilt swamping him, even though he'd had his reason for keeping Sam in the dark.

Finally Dean swallowed down his pride, not averting his gaze as he rasped out a low but heartfelt "I'm sorry,"

Sam dragged in a breath, lifted his chin and worked against locked muscles in his neck, unclenching the fists his hands had curled into with force. With a heavy sigh he rotated his body and let himself sink onto the bottom bunk of the bed opposite Dean, ancient springs groaning underneath his weight but holding tight.

Dean shifted his body on the mattress until he could better face Sam. Another minute was spent in silence before Sam reached up a hand to roughly run it through his hair before letting it drop into his lap again.

"What happened, man?" Sam asked, voice rough and a little pinched and Dean looked down at his lap, unsure if the question was directed at him, at his condition, or the whole fucked up situation in general. Sam was the master of hypothetical questions, half the time he didn't expect, didn't _want_ an answer to.

"Dean, what happened to you?"

Dean swallowed, dragging heavy eyes up towards his brother once more.

Sam sat there, elbows on knees, hands clutched tightly between his legs as if physically restraining himself from reaching over to touch his big brother. Dean wished, more than anything, that Sam wouldn't hold himself back.

Out of the corner of his eyes Dean detected movement at the door to their room, but he didn't find it in him to look away from Sam now, still fuelled by this goddamn fear that his brother might disappear on him any second.

"Why did you come?" Dean asked calmly while trying hard not to squirm underneath Sam's gaze as his brother shot venom at him for again avoiding the answer to the most pressing question.

There was a raw mixture of emotions chasing themselves over his little brother's face, it was hard to read and interpret them all.

Anger – foremost and definitely overshadowing them all.

Fear maybe, even though of what Dean couldn't fathom.

Maybe a hint of pain mixed in there too…and…guilt? Now that one was even harder to understand. Why the hell would Sam feel guilty? He'd made it adamantly clear that he was very much at peace with his decision of leaving this life, leaving them…

"I came because you called,"

At that Dean shot a quick look towards the door to the living room, making out his father standing there, only partially hidden by the doorjamb yet not stepping into the room. Dean feared to see the reaction on his father's face at hearing Sam's words, but didn't find the accusing look he'd been expecting. Instead, John's eyes were transfixed to the back of Sam's head, as if all the answers he'd ever been looking for were hidden in Sam's floppy haircut somehow.

"I didn't…I mean, I did call you, but I didn't tell you to come." Dean defended himself, shifting uneasily as Sam's eyes bore into him even more fiercely, noting out of the corners of his eyes that now John's eyes were trained on him as well.

"Yeah you did."

"Like hell…"

"You did, Dean. Maybe you didn't come out in the open and say it, but you were calling me for help. I knew you were in trouble, so I came,"

"I wasn't in trouble," Dean said indignantly, once again trying his hardest to not meet his father's gaze, which was most definitely trained on him now.

God, how he hated being the center of attention…

"Oh, you weren't? Looks different from where I'm standing."

"Yeah, maybe your view is obscured by those bangs hanging in your eyes that would make a show-horse proud…"

Dean tried a smile, lopsided and toothy, but Sam didn't bite.

Awesome.

"You were hurt, Dean. Still are, goddamn it. Did you really think you could keep that from me?"

"A man has to try…" Dean tried, once again but without much steam behind it, to crack Sam up.

Anything to get past that feeling of heavy dread that he really didn't want to feel, now that he had his brother by his side again.

Sam nodded, looked away momentarily, biting his lower lip while his eyes got suspiciously teary.

Dean felt a fierce tug of guilt at the thought of making Sam both angry and sad. He'd always aimed at keeping those emotions out of his little brother's life and even though he'd failed more times than he could count, it still hurt so much seeing him like this.

But when Sam turned back to face him once more, the leaking was under control again and Dean once again found himself at the receiving end of his brother's wrath.

"You lied to me," He said again, voice low and barely controlled. "And you thought I wouldn't notice."

This time Dean didn't fall for the question that really wasn't one, was an assessment only.

It _was_ pretty obvious, wasn't it?

"So, what gave me away?" he finally asked, reaching out his good right arm to steady himself against the mattress, to keep himself from sliding down the headboard. His shoulder was throbbing, leg shaking so hard inside his cast, Dean thought he could hear the screws rattle against bone in there…

"I'm your brother, Dean. I know you better than anyone – hell, sometimes I think I know you better than myself. I always know when you're hurt or in trouble. I _always_ know,"

The last sentence had been spoken so quietly, Dean wondered that maybe he hadn't heard it right.

But of course he had.

Had actually heard it so loud and clear, it almost drowned out the groan of the living room floorboards just outside the room.

When Dean looked up towards the door a second later, John was gone.

But Sam was still here.

_Sam was still here._

For the moment it was all that mattered.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_So, I don't know what to say about this. I'm very, very, VERY nervous because I don't feel I did the situation justice... I hope I am wrong, though. I mentioned somewhere before that sam has been gone for about 18 months in this story, so, if I take the timeline of the show, this shouldn't be too AU, I hope._

_Thanks to everybody reading and reviewing, and to all those reading silently and favoriting this story or me as an author. It's utterly amazing!_

_If you detect more mistakes than usual in this it's because my wonderful beta Nalanzu is away for the weekend, so this is terribly unbetaed. I hope it's not too bad._

_Other than that...gotta go to the 5th birthay bash in a week now...with an injured foot that hurts like hell and doesn't fit in any shoe i brought along on this trip...life sucks._

_I'd love to hear what you think (and I really do, even though I'm worried out of my mind that you won't like it), because your reviews are the only thing that keep me going when I'm seriously doubting myself again!_

_take care!_


	23. Chapter 23

_Here's the next chapter, excuses and explanations later._

_Thaks so much for coming back every week, it means a lot!_

**Crows in the Weatfield**

**Chapter 23**

John left his perch at the door to his sons' room and retreated into the kitchen on almost shaky legs.

The look of raw panic in Dean's eyes as Sam had mentioned that his brother had called him had felt like a punch in the gut to John. He felt so unreasonably cruel for putting that fear into his son for simply calling his own brother in times of need…

Sam, as John had known he would be, was a bristling wreck of nerves, anger overshadowing his apparent concern for his brother as it always did. Sam reacted…differently in times of emotional distress than Dean did. His youngest had more trouble opening up to his true emotions, to push past his own anger and feelings of betrayal and allow himself to feel anything beyond his own hurt. John knew it wasn't something Sam had under control but it had led to many a fight between the youngest and the eldest Winchester back in their time.

Dean's immediate reaction to his brother or father getting hurt would be to surge into protecting-mode, to fuss over them, making sure they were alright and cared for and never once submitting to his own feelings, his own emotions. He completely and absolutely excelled in channeling all his energies in getting _them_ to feel better, focusing entirely on the - to him - most important task. It might not have been the most healthy way to handle things, John knew that, but it certainly was the easier one for him to deal with because it was the less violent, the more productive one.

In many ways, Sam was a lot like John himself, he realized, his anger getting the better of him more often than he liked, reacting more impulsively – seemingly more unreasonable, emotional hurt overruling all thoughts of reason. It didn't mean that he loved any less fiercely, that he cared less - on the contrary. He only didn't know how to reign in his emotions, how to channel them and put them to more sufficient use.

John realized his hands were shaking as he leaned onto the kitchen counter, fingers spread wide to hold himself up, eyes staring at the worn and chipped countertop without truly seeing anything.

Sam was back.

He'd said it over and over in his mind and still it didn't make it any less believable.

Sam was back.

_He was back._

Despite saying that he would never return to them, that he didn't want anything to do with their life anymore.

Despite John telling him to not bother coming back.

John knew that his youngest hadn't come back because of him, that he'd come solely because he'd sensed his brother's pain, had needed to make sure that Dean was alright. And still it was enough. It gave John hope, despite everything that had happened between them, that Sam would…could come back one day, that everything wasn't lost.

Soft, murmuring voices from the den pulled John out of his brooding reverie and he released a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding when Sam at least didn't unleash his pent up fury on his injured brother with full force. Dean needed this, John knew, needed the connection with his brother more than he ever needed his father, more than he ever needed anything else in life.

What he didn't need was to worry about Sam going all mental on him. He needed Sam to be there for him – however long that might turn out to be.

So John made a mental note to himself to keep calm, to try and not rise to the bait he was sure Sam would throw out for him once he got the chance, sliding into his old habit of laying blame on his father for everything that ever went wrong. And maybe Sam wasn't so far off track this time around, at least…

With force John pushed himself off the counter, squaring his shoulders and running a hand over his face almost brutally, rubbing at heavy lids and scruffy cheeks. Wallowing in self-pity and thoughts of 'what-ifs' wouldn't help him any way at all.

So, what to do now…?

John turned around, scanning the room with bleary eyes that suddenly seemed to have trouble focusing. Could still be the concussion talking, but more likely it was weariness and exhaustion taking its toll.

His gaze swept through the living room, barely resting on the disarrayed sleeping arrangements of last night, the tangled sheets and one fallen crutch his son hadn't been able to use. John realized that he should change his son's bandages sooner rather than later and one look at his watch told him that his eldest was long overdue on his meds, too.

So…that first and then…

They would need to eat, and from what John could remember there was little to nothing left in the cabinets or the fridge. All those things he needed to think about now…it usually was Dean who took care of everything, did the groceries whenever they actually _did_ groceries instead of just going out to eat, took care of the laundry, too.

Back when Sam had still stayed with them it used to be both boys sharing the workload, fighting over who did what and when. But it had always been Dean who thought of everything, organized the schedules, did what nobody else thought about doing.

Always picking up the pieces…

John detected his duffel next to the sofa and went for it, digging through it until he came up with the cleanest pair of jeans he could find, along with a crumbled but clean smelling t-shirt and his tattered canvas jacket.

He could probably use a shower but didn't think he could spare the time.

He had to take care of his boys first.

The need to take of them now, that it was almost too late was probably in vain, and John knew that they were well beyond his care, more likely. He'd definitely missed out on the chance – the many chances he'd gotten in the years he'd gotten them both in his grasp. Now…it seemed like Sam wasn't the only one who had slipped away from him a little, despite Dean still being there with him, still standing by his side.

But they were both here now. The thought of that was almost too much for John to contemplate.

Once he was dressed John picked up the first aid kit which lay scattered all over the place, unsorted and uncared for, running low on so many things John would have never accepted otherwise. He haphazardly gathered together what he would need, making mental notes as to what he would need to stock up on later. Then he grabbed the bottles of prescription-pills they had gotten from the hospital, making sure to bring the strongest pain meds as well. Dean had to be running on nothing but fumes by now.

When he once again entered the den both boys stopped talking, Dean looking up almost guiltily while Sam's eyes immediately shadowed over, his gaze roaming John's body momentarily before he straightened, locking flashing eyes with his father's.

This time around John was irritated more than angered by his son's boiling anger towards him and it took him a moment to place it.

"You plan on going anywhere?" Sam asked, his voice dripping venom.

Out of the corner of his eyes John saw Dean flinch at his tone.

For a split second John was inclined to shoot back at Sam, use the same tone of voice, fuelled by the same anger and hurt at his son's behavior against him. But all it would accomplish was them turning in circles again, deepening the hurt, the wounds already ripped deep by words and actions long past but never forgotten.

He was aware of Dean's eyes on him, waiting, begging him to not jump at Sam like he had a history of doing.

John took a steadying breath, barely refrained from closing his eyes to summon the patience he'd had so little success in dragging out in the past.

But not today – not right now.

He lifted the tattered first aid kit like a peace offering, watched Sam's eyes go from those deep dark pits of anger to soft in understanding. His brows drew together in shame as he dropped his stance, hands that had been curled into loose yet no doubt angry fists just seconds before relaxing in his lap.

"We need to change your bandages," John said towards Dean, saw his eldest eyes flash a silent thanks to him and felt incredibly worse at that, for some reason. Dean shouldn't be thanking him for not snapping at Sam, should he? It should be the most natural thing in the world, should have gone without saying. He should just be able to give in to that urge to _hug_ his own son after not standing face to face with him in more than one and a half years.

"And you need to take your meds - should have taken them a couple of hours ago, but I didn't want to wake you."

Dean swallowed, eyes flicking to his brother as if ashamed of this obvious sign of weakness.

John was painfully aware of his son's slumped posture, slightly listing to the side and propping himself up with his right arm only. He was so pale the freckles on his nose stood out against almost translucent skin and again John was struck by how freaking weak he looked. But his eyes…they had taken on a glimmer that couldn't be traced back to the fever that had raged a war inside his body.

Dean had found hope again.

John just hoped that it wouldn't be smashed again soon.

"It's Ok…I'm alright," Dean hedged, shifting uncomfortably under his father's scrutinizing gaze. But despite his reassurances he seemed to know, not so deep down, that it was pretty pointless to protest. Especially with Sam there to jump at the straw he'd been offered, as if in addressing Dean's wounds out in the open gave Sam the opening he'd been waiting for to finally shed the angry helplessness and jump into his caring-mode.

"I'll do it. I'll take care of him." Sam offered with a mixture of stubborn insistence and sheepish excuse as he kept his chin tipped low as if trying to avoid meeting his father's eyes.

A moment of peace, a ceasefire, even though John had the strong suspicion that the fight was merely put off, not entirely avoided yet.

"You don't need to…I'm fine…" Dean protested weakly and without much conviction, but this time he was interrupted by both his younger brother and father as they shot back at him almost simultaneously.

"Shut up, Dean,"

It would have bee almost comical if the situation wasn't so tense still.

Dean's cheek ticked in silent frustration but he kept his retort to himself.

Sam had gotten up from his perch on the bottom bunk and reluctantly reached over to take the first aid kit and the bottles of pills from his father.

"The dosage of the pills is written on the labels of the bottles," John explained quietly and Sam nodded, tight-lipped. "He'll probably need an extra one of those," John shook the bottle of high-dosed prescription pain meds, noting that it was almost empty already.

Judging from the look in Sam's eyes, he'd seen it too.

"Jesus, guys. I'm sitting right here, you know," Dean muttered from his perch on the bed, but his protest was without steam, was just to have some say in the matter and not sit there and let his brother and father decide over him like he was unable to make decisions for himself.

This time they both ignored him and Sam took the supplies from his father.

For a moment John stood there, at a loss for words, torn between telling Sam that he was happy to see him, that he wanted him to stay. He had to clamp his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out towards his son to simply touch him, feel that he was real.

He wanted to draw him close and hug him, try and hold onto him and physically keep him from leaving him – leaving them again.

But he kept himself in check, pained to realize that he had no idea how Sam would react, only sure that it would break both Dean and him into pieces if Sam's reaction wouldn't be what they hoped for.

"So, where are you going?" Sam asked again, the venom in his voice pushed down for the moment but still palpable enough.

"We've run out of food. I'm going to get some," John replied with forced calm, hyper aware of both his sons' imploring gazes even though they were for totally different reasons.

"Oh, OK," Sam nodded, probably disappointed since he'd suspected to get a rise out of a father, a reason to once again unleash his anger on him.

"I didn't see the Impala or your truck out front," he finally said, shrugging and rolling his shoulders back, thrusting his chin forward as his tone morphed back into defensive. "'s is why I picked the lock…I didn't think you'd be here anymore,"

"Truck's getting fixed. Parked the Impala in the shed out back." John replied.

"Oh," Sam repeated almost dumbly.

Once again the room fell silent, the smothering blanket of unease that had never really lifted from their reunion settling heavily over them again.

As much as John wanted to stay, he knew that his presence only made things more awkward at the moment. And judging from Dean's pallor the kid didn't need awkward, didn't need the tension radiating in the room right now. Maybe his sons – especially Sam - wouldn't see it like that, but giving them space to be together right now, to work things out between themselves _was_ the most sensible thing to do…

"I'll be back soon," John finally offered, saw Dean flinch in reaction, Sam's brows drawing together minutely. But before he could do or say anything else John forcefully tore himself away from them, took a step back and broke the almost paralyzing need to stay with his sons.

Another step and his heart beat a little easier, his chest filling with air again.

The next step had him bumping the back of his heels against the doorjamb and he reached out to steady himself, sliding his body around the doorframe until he cleared the room, found himself alone in the living room again.

Neither of his boys made a move to hold him back.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_Ok, so I know this is definitely a little dissapointing, if not in ways of writing or storyline ( I hope...I really hope) then it ways of length. _

_I had a crazy, crazy, damn week. I won't go into details, but it was just...crazy. And then, when it calmed down, I couldn't find one clear thought to put onto paper - temporary writers block, i guess. This chapter right here, it was already done like this, only it never was meant to be a chapter in itself but only a part of one. i fully intended on just skipping out this week because, you know, I hate posting something this short, but then I figured it does stand for itself, kinda, and I promised you weekly updates, and I bailed out on those a couple of times already, and i'd hate to lose any readers because they think I'm unreliable. hence the short post._

_i hope you understand and maybe appreciate the effort (*blinks sweetly*)_

_the next one will be way longer and have way more sam and dean in it, I swear - and i hope i'll have time to send it to get betaed before I post, too. _

_also, I didn't answer most of you awesome, cherished reviews last week either. It doesn't mean I don't cherish every single one of them, though. the one anonymous who suggested i get moving to the good stuff...this is as good as it will get, sorry. I'm a sucker for hurt and comort and i'm sorry if it's not what you expected._

_I hope the rest of you will forgive me this out of habit chapter and still come back for more. I just didn't want to keep you waiting!_

_thanks - you guys rock!_


	24. Chapter 24

_Here I am again - with the next chapter._

_I still don't own them._

_Ant this is un-betaed, but I hope I managed to catch at least most of the horrendous mistakes I made. Please be kind and look past those that kept hiding from me, though._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 24**

Sam hated feeling out of control and it just felt like whenever he was with his family, he abandoned every last ounce of self-control he'd ever possessed.

When Dean had called and they'd had that weird as hell conversation about crows, Sam had felt as if he'd been dropped into that void again. The need to go and make sure his brother was alright had been battling with the absolute need to stay away, to not lose himself in the Winchester family dynamics once again. He's always known that, while dad managed to push him away with every word he said, everything he did, Dean did just the opposite. His brother had this…pull, this ability to cast a spell over Sam somehow, to annoy the hell out of him and still he just wasn't able to let Dean go, wasn't able to stay mad at him.

He loved his brother, always had, which was why it had been so goddamn hard to leave, seeing that broken look in Dean's eyes even as he told Sam to go and live his life - be happy.

"_You can be whatever you want to, Sammy, never forget that,"_

It had been that unquestionable loyalty towards him that had broken Sam's determination to stay away from his family this time around. After the phone call, Sam had known something was wrong. Dean wasn't quite as stealthy as he thought he was, his pain always an open book to Sam, even when Dean managed to fool everybody else.

It had taken Sam exactly one night of laying awake, worrying himself sick and to the point of collapsing. The next morning he had gotten up, knocked at his neighbor's door and asked him if he could borrow his car for a few days.

A family emergency.

"_I'll be back by Monday."_

Sam had left, hadn't even told his girlfriend - Jess – where he was going, had simply grabbed his wallet and an always pre-packed duffel and left, had called her from the road so she wouldn't worry.

He had left with the simple plan of checking on his brother, letting him have a piece of his mind for lying to him, then leave again.

On the drive he'd worked up a pretty decent cushion of hurt and anger to feed on, had worked himself up and up until the original intention of making sure his brother was OK had been turned into simply giving Dean hell about lying to him. And he definitely planned on tearing into Dad for everything and nothing - if the man was even there to hear him out.

If either his brother or father were even there to begin with.

Sam knew that as soon as he had left to go to school his father had shed the last bit of willingness to stay dormant for any longer period of time. The little house they had rented during most of Sam's senior year had been abandoned a mere three days after Sam had walked out that door to never come back, as his dad had so efficiently put it. Sam had called, from a phone booth just outside of Palo Alto, hoping to reach his brother to apologize for leaving without properly saying goodbye, planning on hanging up if John would pick up the phone.

But the call had gone unanswered.

_The number you have dialed is out of service_, the tinny voice of a machine had informed him, and Sam had hung up the receiver and felt as hollow as the voicemail delivering the final farewell of a life he'd thought he'd never look back to.

After that, John and Dean hadn't had a permanent address anymore.

Dean had sent Sam a text-message relaying his new cell-hone-number a couple weeks later, after he'd lost his phone, or so he claimed. But he'd never given Sam another mailing address, and the few postcards Sam received over the following months were posted from all over the States, never stating any return address to begin with.

Dean never had been a man of many words, and all the cards were devoid of any message, were completely blank save for Sam's address scrawled onto the designated lines in Dean's distinct handwriting.

At first, the cards had confused Sam, had shaken him a little even. With time, though, he'd come to cherish them as an almost more intimate sign of life than the few and far in between phone calls his brother graced him with every once in a while. The cards, Sam realized, were Dean's way of telling Sam that he still cared. That he hadn't cut his little brother out like their father had.

Sam had saved them all in the old shoe-box he kept in the back of his closet, together with his gun, his knife and a 5 pound bag of rock-salt – just in case.

The arrival of the cards got sparser with time, until one day about five months ago Sam realized that he hadn't received any for well over a month already.

It had hurt more than anything to realize that Dean was alright, wasn't hurt – at least according to Pastor Jim, who Sam had called to find out if his brother was alright. Dean wasn't hurt – he'd just learned to live without his brother.

It was childish and unreasonable, but Sam had gotten angry. For the first time since moving to Palo Alto, he'd gone out and had gotten thoroughly drunk. Had told that pretty blond waitress that he didn't need anybody to look out for him, that he could do this all alone – that that's what he'd wanted all along.

The next morning he'd woken up in her bed, still fully dressed – to his relief – with one of the worst hangovers of his life ever since Dean had introduced him to Tequila on his 16th birthday.

After that, he'd stopped taking Dean's calls. And he'd started going out with the waitress who was now his steady girlfriend.

But during the last month or so, though, Sam had gotten a…feeling. It had started with the strange phone call he'd gotten – the message left on his voicemail from Dean's cell, some stranger telling Sam to call back, urgently. Then the even stranger conversations with Dad, the man apparently stalling, keeping something from Sam. Which had led Sam to leave about a dozen messages on Dean's phone, which were never returned. And just as Sam had been about to forget about it all, Dean had called. And Sam had picked up. Everything else was…well, history.

And here he was now.

Nothing had prepared him for what he would find here, though.

No matter how betrayed Sam had felt, no matter how much he had wanted to kill Dad for lying to him and Dean for being the stubborn, self-sacrificing idiot that he was, Sam couldn't stay mad at his brother after finding him so beaten and broken and so…so unlike _Dean_.

One look at his brother and Sam had folded, inside at least. Unfortunately though, Sam's biggest problem was that his worry and fear for his brother and father manifested itself in bursts of anger, in almost unstoppable outbreaks of accusations and allegations that only ever managed to drive an even deeper wedge between himself and those he cared about most.

Sam knew that his temper was one of his biggest weaknesses – not that he'd ever admit to it out loud. But both dad and Dean had told him so more often than he could count and so far he hadn't found one single argument against it.

Problem was, no matter how much Sam knew to be wrong, to be selfish and unreasonable, he still didn't manage to jump over his shadow quite so easily.

When John left to get some food – to run away from them, as Sam saw it, to escape the responsibility, the confrontation – they were finally alone. Together. It took a while for Sam to realize that he was almost thankful that their dad had given them the privacy, that he might have been a tad hard on John, maybe.

Maybe John had given them both what they needed the most right now, had given his sons the possibility to bond again, to find their balance. Maybe John _did_ know his boys better than he was ever given credit for. Maybe he had changed, in the last year and a half since Sam had left.

The moment Sam was left in care of his injured brother his instincts took over his body, let him treat Dean's injuries with the uttermost care and most tender gentleness. But a part of him remained his old, stubborn self and instead of giving Dean what he needed most while hurting, he treated him with the worst punishment he could possibly dish out except for actually leaving – he remained silent throughout his ministrations.

All the things he wanted to say, wanted to ask, but in order to keep his emotions in check and not come undone right then and there, to let Dean see how fucking hurt he was by the events that had led up to this, he kept his mouth shut.

Dean, Sam knew, had always suffered most from silence.

It was why he always kept music on, blasting out loud or calmly playing in the background only, kept the TV running whether he was actually watching or not. Sam didn't know why exactly that was, but he'd always been aware of his brother's need for sound to keep him from thinking too much. Which made this right now so much worse still…made _him_ so much more cruel for using that knowledge of Dean's weakness against him.

But, try as he might, Sam couldn't just shed his skin like Dean was able to, overcome his pride and give Dean what he needed right away, give in to what he himself wanted to give his brother, more than anything. Sam didn't want his brother to hurt, had never wanted to see him unhappy.

Still it was too damn early to jump over his own shadow.

So he kept treating his brother's wounds in silence.

He worked calmly, gently, just barely managing to not throw up at the sight of the bruises and wounds in various stages of healing, the broken leg and the mangled shoulder that marred his brother's body. He tried not to notice how much weight Dean had lost or how pale he looked, how drawn his features appeared or how sunken his cheeks were - how hollow his eyes felt. If Sam had met his brother on the street looking like this, he probably would have had to look twice to recognize him.

He cleaned the wounds on Dean's shoulder, recognizing them as bite-marks not knowing what might have caused them. They looked fresh compared to the other marks that marred Dean's body, a sick, nauseating portrait of suffering painted all over his skin, going so much deeper.

The older wounds – on his abdomen and side, his upper chest looked as if they'd been taken care of by someone who knew what he was doing, seemingly gruesome slashes and cuts sealed shut with small, careful stitches. But the newer sutures on the top and back of Dean's left shoulder looked suspiciously like Dad's work – clean and carefully done as well yet without too much emphasis on keeping the scarring to a minimum, using thread and needle that were a tad too thick for this kind of wound.

John had definitely done those himself.

Sam could only wince as he imagined the pain Dean must have been in during the procedure.

It also meant that Dean had been gravelly injured _twice_ in…what…a month? Sam felt his jaw harden, his teeth creak as they strained against each other.

Dean skin felt a little warm to the touch where Sam laid the tips of his fingers against his brother's neck, trying to lend support the only way he could right now, the anger still paralyzing his tongue. He winced in sympathy along with every twitch of his brother's skin, every hitch of breath, every tick of that muscle in his jaw that always was the best indicator whether or not Dean was holding back on something.

He definitely was holding back now.

When Sam started dowsing the wounds with water and antiseptic, Dean started humming. The sound was low, barely more than a vibration of his throat reverberating along his skin before travelling up Sam's fingers, but it was there.

Dean was distracting himself from the pain, shutting out the world around him like only he could. Seeking the solace that Sam denied him when staying silent.

Sam closed his eyes when he was sure Dean wasn't looking, took a breath which only reluctantly made to feed his suddenly aching lungs.

Dean would have dropped all reservations, relinquished all his anger and defiance the moment he became aware of any distress Sam was in, would have pushed his own feelings aside in order to make sure Sam was alright, was taken care of. He would have done so without second thought, without regret.

Carefully, Sam trailed his fingers along an older scar along his brother's shoulder, the skin still pink and welted but mostly healed already. He hadn't been there to take care of that wound for his big brother. He didn't know how they had happened – maybe never would.

Dean's skin rippled and twitched and the beat he'd no doubt been counting faltered as he stumbled over the rhythm before being able to pick it back up again. The frown between his brows deepened and as Sam looked at his brother's face more closely he saw Dean as he hardly ever used to see him. He saw the lines of pain and age that had no business gracing the features of a 24-year-old, saw months of loneliness and exhaustion that seemed to have aged his brother in ways Sam had never thought possible.

And, just like that, Sam's resolve broke like a leaking damn after days of heavy rain.

"Dean, hey," he whispered, softly, leaning close while keeping his hand on his brother's neck, holding him steady. "You can come back now,"

Dean's brows drew together more tightly as he apparently still was too trapped in whatever safe-place he had removed himself to during Sam's painful ministrations.

"Come back, Dean." Sam commanded softly, relieved to see Dean obeying his command, albeit slowly, as he worked on disentangling bunched up lashes, muddy green eyes still lost in the distance for a second or two before slipping back into the here and now.

"Hey," Sam soothed, his thumb running feather light circles against the back of his brother's neck in a gesture he had copied from Dean himself when tending to an injured or sick little brother when they'd still been kids and – well – many times later, too.

Dean flicked his tongue out to wet his lips, smacking them softly as he worked up some moisture in his mouth so he'd be able to speak.

"Hey yourself," he rasped out, looking back at Sam but still seeming a little lost. Almost as if he didn't believe that Sam was real, was there with him.

"You with me again?" Sam probed gently, hands never breaking the touch, knowing that, along with his voice, they were the only thing centering his brother at the moment.

"I don't know," Dean started, eyes unwaveringly locked with Sam's, desperately latching onto him, almost. "Do you see me?"

The question left Sam breathless for a second.

"What…yeah, Dean, I see you." he finally whispered, his voice suspiciously hoarse.

"Are _you_…really here?" Dean asked, and again Sam was struck by the pure need in his brother's voice, his gaze, knowing that Dean would not allow himself this kind of vulnerability if he was truly aware.

Dean didn't protest Sam's hands aiding him into a more upright sitting position, didn't object as maybe Sam kept the contact for longer than necessary, not letting go at all.

"Yeah, I'm real, I'm here," he said with conviction, tethering himself to the contact with Dean as was obvious the other way around.

Dean nodded, satisfied with the answer, trusting his brother in his momentary weakness.

"Then I am, too."

OoOoOoO

Sam was clearing away the first aid kit with tedious care, making sure he had every last piece of gauze packed away, the pair of scissors and the tweezers, the hated curved needle wrapped and stowed away in its designated spot. He'd always been tedious like this, always the one to make sure they were organized when it came to their first aid supplies, just as Dean had been taking care of their weapons all their lives.

Dean found comfort in watching Sam doing this, found comfort in the familiarity of his movements, his presence, his smell even. He found comfort in pretty much anything his brother was doing, to be honest, as long as he was doing it within eyesight.

Sam's hip was right next to Dean's injured leg, close enough so he could touch him if he tried to.

For a moment Dean contemplated doing just that, to just skim his finger along the seam of Sam's jeans, poke him – anything to make sure this was not a dream.

Sam leant down, closing the metal lid of the kit and reaching for something that had rolled underneath the bed. His head was down for the moment and it would have been so easy…so easy to just reach out and…

Just that moment Sam shifted his weight to better reach whatever he was looking for and in the process he moved that tiny bit closer to his brother until he brushed against Dean's upper thigh. Dean held completely still, biting his lip so he wouldn't make a sound as even that feather-light touch jarred his injured leg a little. But if he made a sound now Sam would move away again, taking away Dean's anchor, so he would be damned if he so much as breathed a silent whimper.

But Sam stayed right where he was and Dean thought that, maybe, he'd been seeking the contact as much as he himself.

When he straightened again, Sam held four multi-colored pills nestled in the hollow of his palm. He handed them to Dean and watched him closely as he swallowed them without hesitation, without a word of protest. He was well past pretending here. When Sam still stared at him in that kinda creepy way Dean couldn't help but open his mouth and stick out his tongue, proving his brother that he'd actually swallowed the drugs he'd been given. It had been one of their games back when they were still younger and one of them had fallen sick. Back when games had still been for fun only, not part of some training routine, hadn't needed to serve a definite purpose instead of making them laugh.

Sam acknowledged the gesture with a smirk before handing over a small plastic bottle of water, the cap already screwed off.

Dean took it without comment and emptied it with one long gulp, handed the bottle back before running his tongue over his palate viciously, trying to rid his mouth of the powdery taste the pills had left in his mouth.

His fingers scrubbed over his face in a gesture that he'd once copied from his father but had by now made a part of his own repertoire – a part of himself. He felt the oily residue of feverish sweat coat his skin, as if indeed all the '_badness_ of the sickness that had inhabited him was being expelled through his pores, waiting to be washed off.

Dean ached for a shower. He craved a drink – and he was talking actual water here, anything to quench his insatiable thirst. And he absolutely and desperately needed to _sleep_. Deep, dreamless sleep - with Sam still there when he woke up again.

But he knew Sam would want answers, would demand them, as a matter of fact, no matter how bad he would feel once he got them.

Dean knew his brother, knew him better than anyone else…just as was the case the other way around. Sam would want to know what happened to Dean, which was understandable enough. But other than Dean he wouldn't use that knowledge to learn from the mistakes that had been made, wouldn't use it to close the case and move forward.

Sam had always needed to understand the reasons that had led up to whatever situation whereas Dean had learned to be happy with the outcome as long as it left them all alive and his brother and father relatively unscathed.

Dean stared at Sam, trying to work up the courage to tell his little brother what he wanted to know, what he deserved to know, by all means. He'd come all the way from California to find out, after all. And Dean had to hurry, or else the drugs would either pull him under or loosen his tongue to an extent that he wasn't comfortable with.

But, try as he might, Dean knew he wouldn't be able to give Sam what he needed. Never the full truth, because that had been something that had been ingrained into Dean's very being from the day the fire had altered their lives, possibly even before that. He was always going to protect his brother, no matter the cost. And protecting him also meant protecting Sam from himself. Because the moment Sam knew – knew everything – all the little details that made this the enormous mess that it was he would start to get all angry again, work himself up into spheres he probably wouldn't be able to come down from anymore.

So, not telling Sam would maybe make him pissed, maybe a little angry, but _telling_ him would be indefinitely worse still.

"Dean, we need to talk about this," Sam started as if on cue, and Dean was pretty sure Sam didn't even realize how hilarious that sounded, if the way his face was all serious was anything to go by.

"You gonna…break up with me?" Dean quipped a little breathlessly, but the corners of his mouth tipped up into a crooked smile, for the first time in weeks feeling ready to use his oldest and most effective way of deflection again. Sure he was still hurting, inside and out, but right this moment he was almost…intoxicated by his little brother's presence, couldn't believe that this was actually happening. Everything he had tried to get his brother back and all it would have taken…

"Don't, Dean…don't make fun of this. Do you realize…clearly even you have to realize how serious this is?"

The look in Sam's eyes was desperate, pleading with Dean and at the same time going all pained and imploring.

"Believe me, Sam. I do realize," Dean offered, voice low and honest, eyes trained intently on his little brother's, wanting to make him see. He knew damned well how serious this had been – still was, maybe, if the way he felt like he had been turned inside out was anything to go by.

He'll, he'd been having freaking _psychic visions_, for crying out loud. In Dean's book, that qualified as pretty damn serious alright.

"You need to understand," Dean started, but Sam cut him off.

"No, no. I don't understand. I don't understand how you could try and keep that from me, Dean."

Sam took a breath, leaned back and away and the sudden distance between them left Dean feeling cold.

"That was the work of a black dog, right?" Sam finally asked, even though it sounded more like a statement than a question and Dean thought his heart missed a beat there to be sure.

"How…"

Sam looked away for a second, nodding to himself as if the fact that Dean didn't deny his question confirmed his suspicions. His lower jaw jutted forward defiantly as he nibbled at his upper lip and he switched from nodding to shaking his head in exasperated disbelief.

"Sam, how…did Dad tell you?" Dean repeated, his pride be damned.

Sam looked back at him and for a moment Dean thought he would blow right up in his face, but when he spoke again he kept his voice level, the dangerous glint in his eyes softened by the glint of a stray tear in the corner of his left eye.

"The call I got a month or so back – from your cell…it was a nurse from the hospital calling me because you told her to, remember?"

Dean squinted his eyes shut, rolling his lips against his teeth.

Jeez, yeah, he remembered. Wasn't something he was particularly proud of, though.

"The call was ended when my mailbox was full, but she left the first part of a phone number for me to call back. Back then I didn't think much of it. And since I talked to Dad after and he didn't say one word…I think I kinda wanted to forget about it. Jesus, Dean I still can't believe he would lie right to my face. I fucking _asked_ him if you were alright and he just…" Sam's hand flailed helplessly as he cut his own ranting antics, collecting himself.

But Dean had to admit that, yeah, it hurt him as much as it hurt Sam, apparently, thinking about John not only turning Sam away but also not telling Dean that his little brother had called. But he wasn't going to show Sam how much that actually stung, how deep that wound still was – how it made Dean see John in a totally different light all of a sudden.

"So, when did you figure it out?" Dean prompted gently, knew that getting Sam to talk would eventually calm him down.

"Even before you called me a couple of days ago, I got this weird…feeling. Couldn't explain it but it made me remember the message. And after you called, asking me those weird-ass questions about crows and premonitions and all – and you still insisted that you were fine when I could basically _hear_ you hurting over the phone, I checked the area-code of that number the nurse gave me. Then I went through newspaper archives of that county till I found those reports of a rogue grizzly or whatever the hell those people thought it was. I found this article about someone killing it – and burning it, in some field,"

"'t was wheat," Dean said, dumbly "a field of wheat. Like in Gladiator, you know?"

Sam's gaze was incredulous and Dean used his brother's momentary silence to swallow back his own surprise at Sam's revelations. But he knew he really shouldn't be surprised by his brother's sufficiency. Sam always had been the researcher in the family, had almost happily taken that part of hunting and made it his own specialty. Still, Dean would have hoped to be able to keep this particular hunt a secret – or at least as much a secret as still possible. There simply were details that weren't meant for his brother's ears to hear – ever.

"Could have been just a grizzly, Sam," he tried, but Sam's expression showed that he didn't buy it.

"The timeframe fit, Dean. It was just around the time I got the call, and then…all the reports before indicated black dog, if you know what to look for. And then the way it was killed... And the article also mentioned the guy that killed the bear almost being ripped to shred right along with it,"

That had Dean tip the corner of his mouth into a pained frown and he unconsciously reached up a hand to rub the knuckles of his fist against the bridge of his nose.

"Now, I'd say that's a bit exaggerated, by all means…"

"Yeah, I can see where they were all wrong about that one," Sam snarked, and Dean couldn't help but think how heavy sarcasm really didn't suit Sam – at all.

"I'm fine, Sam. Always am. Just a little…roughed up, maybe but nothing to get all bitchy about,"

The clench of Sam's jaw didn't allow him to answer back to that, but his eyes positively shot arrows at Dean.

"I should have known, Dean. Hell, you apparently wanted me to know, when you weren't all intent on being your old stubborn self, thinking that you have to carry the whole freaking world on your shoulders. You wanted the hospital to call me, Dean – me and not Dad. You wanted me to know…"

"So, you're saying it would have actually made you feel better if I had told you?" Dean asked, cocking an eyebrow at Sam, seeing his little brother's brows arch in mirror reaction at his question.

"You would actually feel better if I spilled my heart now, gave you a rundown of what happened, is that it?

"What...yeah, Dean. I want to know…I _want _to know,"

Dean shook his head, cutting his little brother off.

"'s not what I asked, Sam. I know you _want_ to – only question is if it wouldn't just…make you even more angry than you already are."

His voice sounded tired – he _felt_ tired, and it went way beyond the sleepy state of wanting to sleep, went straight to the bone-deep, aching _need_ to rest. He was so done feeling like this, this exhaustion weighing him down with a force that made him doubt he'd ever be able to get up again.

Emotions raged a silent but most expressive war all over Sam's features as he sat there, shoulders curled slightly forward yet every single muscle in his body remained tensed to the utmost extent.

Dean forced his head up and away from the headboard, to not roll back and just give in to exhaustion.

"How is telling me going to help you feel better, Sam? How is it not going to get you even more righteous? How will it not just…feed your resentment towards Dad, towards this life…"

'_Towards me?' _Dean wanted to ask, but he didn't dare say that part out loud. Maybe because he was too afraid Sam wouldn't correct him, wouldn't deny that he hadn't only left because of their father, because of their mission. Part of Dean knew, that he'd played his part in his brother's abandonment, he just wasn't ready to admit to the fact that, yeah, he might need his little brother more than the other way around.

There probably were a lot more people that he needed more than they needed him…

Sam was quiet, jaw locked in ways that simply had to be painful, bottom lip pinched between his teeth and Dean could see him draw blood already. Sam's hands lay twisted in his lap, prominent veins in his forearms standing out dangerously as he wrung and wrestled them, muscles and tendons pushing sharply against smooth, tanned skin.

He looked…different, Dean realized, no more the lanky teenager, even though he probably still was not as bulky as he could be, given that he came after their father in built.

"I don't resent you, Dean,"

Sam's voice ripped Dean out of his observations, and for a second he had trouble placing his little brother's statement into their conversation. When he finally did decipher Sam's words, Dean was momentarily left wondering if maybe he had spoken out loud, had actually voiced his fears instead of swallowing them back down. But he hadn't, and again he was left to admit that Sam probably did know his big brother better than Dean wanted to realize.

"Yeah, but…you don't actually approve either, am I right? – of the way dad and I…live our lives," Dean supplied around a crooked smile, surprised as his words slurred slightly already.

"You know I don't…Dean, I just can't stand seeing you…hurt all the damn time," Sam pressed out.

His body hadn't lost its tension, but his face relaxed ever so slightly, anger and acrimony overshadowed by worry once more.

Dean hated that look, knew it always got to him, made him cave where he wanted to stay strong and on course.

"'m not hurt _all_ the time, Sammy. Just, you know…seems like you only look more closely when I am, is all."

Sam dropped his chin, joints in his fingers cracking as he kept abusing them.

"So, you're not going to tell me, then," he asked as his head came up again, eyes not flashing acid but squinted and teary, exasperation and defeat raging a visible battle all through him.

Dean shrugged, wincing at the pain that chased through his upper body at the motion.

"Seems like you already know all you need to know, Sam," he said quietly, secretly still impressed with his little brother's research-skills. "Everything else is just…a question of semantics. 'sides, it's over and done with. Case closed. Time to move on,"

Dean raised his left hand and waved it in a dismissive gesture, but miscalculating his range of movement terribly. Sharp pain flared through his shoulder, easily pushing past the cushion of painkillers already coursing through his system. He ground out an almost feral groan as the instinctive reaction to curl himself forward a little sent a roll of nausea through his still tender abdomen. He couldn't straighten so he levered his body forward, pressing his bad arm against his belly while the other reached out to steady himself against the mattress. His arm was shaking and he feared it wouldn't hold his weight, but a second later long, strong fingers wrapped themselves around his forearm, the touch strong – the support unwavering.

Dean drew in a breath with the contact, let it out again when Sam's other hand snaked towards Dean's upper left thigh, big palm pressing hard against what Dean only now realized was a basically convulsing coil of atrophied muscle there.

When he blinked bleary eyes up to search for his brother's face he found Sam looking at him with an almost pained expression that felt like it mirrored Dean's own pain. And since nothing worked better at sobering him up than seeing his brother in pain, Dean used Sam's face to pull himself up and together again, straightening ever so slightly without pulling away from the touch.

"Dean?" Sam ventured carefully, and Dean used his brother's voice along with his touch to pull himself back the rest of the way.

"Yeah…'m good," Dean started, swallowing heavily while forcefully relaxing the muscles in his shoulders and upper back to keep the pain down to a minimum. Just another couple of minutes and the drugs would do their work…just another couple of minutes.

"And, you know…turns out your theory about black dogs hunting in teams is actually not so far-fetched after all..."

His words started to slur more heavily, and Sam's eyes were squinting tighter and tighter, probably in reaction to his speech as well as the facts Dean was dishing out seemingly random information.

"Dean, that's just…"

"Heartwarming, I know. Turns out so called heartless beasts do have a heart after all…

Sam was about to bitch back at him, rolled his lip between his teeth at the last minute to suppress what would have been the beginning of a loathing tirade of accusations and allegations he was so damn good at dishing out.

"What about your shoulder, man? That one's more recent, can't have come from the black dogs," he finally said, his voice quivering between pain and resignation, eyes leaking the hurt about being stood up by his brother.

"Skinwalker," Dean offered around a shaky smile, daring Sam to venture further than that, hoping he didn't see how this conversation drained the last bit of strength from him.

"What business did you have hunting a goddamn skinwalker, Dean?" Sam asked and if it hadn't been for his hand still on Dean's thigh, palm warm and reassuring, Dean could have sworn his brother was aiming at bringing him to his knees with his incessant questioning. But again – Sam expressed concern through anger – and from the amount of barely suppressed scorn bleeding out of his little brother's pores he had to be pretty damn concerned.

"Dad hunted it. I just…went to help him out, made sure he came back in one piece,"

"_You_ had to make sure Dad was alright?" Sam questioned, hand lifting from Dean's shoulder, palm thrust outwards in an almost childish gesture of disbelief.

"Someone's gonna take care of him, Sam." Dean argued as if it was the most natural thing in the world that he would go out and get himself killed in order to protect his family. Which it was, kind of. It really _was_ a no-brainer.

"And who's looking after you, Dean? Who is making sure that you make it back in one piece?" the question threw Dean off track just a little bit. Were they still talking about the skinwalker, or about life in general? Because Sam was pretty damn good at turning the conversation around to make it about something…different – about the _bigger picture._

"I have taken care of myself all my life," Dean protested weakly, the heavy downwards pull of his eyelids taking some of the force off his statement, made him seem like a petulant child rather than the independent hunter that he really was. "'sides, Dad was there. We were…taking care of each other. This is no job for just one man alone,"

That sentence, even though not meant as a barb, seemed to cut deep. Sam flinched and shied back, fingers sliding over Dean's leg until they were stopped by the edge of the cast. Sam stared down at the offending piece of plaster almost dumbly, fingers momentarily tracing along the rim before settling down again, looking back up at Dean.

"It really is no big deal," Dean shrugged, the blatant lie tasting wrong, feeling wrong so he chose not to look at his brother while he said it. Sam always had been way too good at reading his big brother – had seen things nobody else had ever seen in Dean to begin with, not even their father.

Sam just sat there, hand on Dean's thigh as if he'd forgotten he'd put it there, looking at him with that worry-crease deepening into the size of the Grand Canyon. At least, though, he didn't go blowing right up in Dean's face.

"You look like shit, Dean, how's that not a big deal?" the words came out soft and pained and caring and Dean felt his heart clench and flutter at the obvious affection that was woven into them.

"'s not the first time…pr'bably won't be the last,"

"I just wish…I wish there was something I could do…" Sam flailed and faltered, lips baring his teeth for a second in a gesture of utter despair.

"Jesus, Sam…just…let it _go_ already,"

Sam snorted in frustration, looking up and away as if, if he kept looking at Dean, he would lose whatever little piece of patience he still had.

"I can't just let this go,"

"You can't or you won't?"

"It's not that easy, Dean. You can't just…palm me off with a trivialized version of how you got hurt so bad, you still are down a month after, feeding me crap about being fine when in reality you're still hurting so bad it's obvious to everyone, most of all me. You can't seriously believe that I'm still going to buy your stories without questioning, backing off without scrutinizing the bullcrap story you're trying to feed me."

"My bullcrap stories used to work just fine…when you were a little kid…worrying about Dad not coming home at night or why he would turn up bloody when he was supposed to be a salesman only. You always did believe my stories alright back then." Dean quipped, hopefully.

Apparently, his humor didn't work on kids turned giant college-students, though.

"Well, they're not working anymore," Sam snapped.

"Please, Sam…can we just…not do this right now? We both know it's not leading anywhere…"

Dean loved his brother, he really did, but when Sam got all pushy and righteous…it sometimes made Dean understand John just a tiny bit more – for losing patience with his youngest every once in a while.

"Don't, Dean…don't do this." Sam pleaded, voice low and imploring, eyes shimmering again, if from hurt or anger Dean couldn't make out. "Don't cut me out… You're always keeping things from me, still trying to protect me as if I'm the 6-year-old that has to be sheltered and guarded from the truth. I'm not a kid anymore."

At that Dean couldn't help but raise an inquiring eyebrow at his brother, for a moment still even seeing the little 6-year-old before him, the one that Dean could tell any crappy story and the kid would believe it, no questions asked.

"You'll always be my little brother, Sam." Dean stated with finality, a little surprised that Sam wouldn't see it, wouldn't or couldn't seem to accept that. What did Sam expect - that Dean would just up and let him go the minute the kid had grown his first stubble, had kissed his first girl? He simply _had_ to know that it went so far beyond that.

"You can't ask me to just stop watching out for you," Dean added around an irritated frown of exhaustion as his eyes continuously slipped closed against his will, his body slumping lower against the headboard.

Sam's face hovered close to Dean's whenever he managed to pry heavy lids open, but his little brother didn't say anything, just stared at him, apparently, no doubt trying to fight down the urge to go all bitchy princess on Dean and give him the rest Sam had to know he needed right now.

"I just want you to be honest to me," he finally whispered hoarsely.

"I could…give you an honest opinion on those…girly bangs covering half your face…" Dean started, deflecting, hoping Sam would catch the implication and just let it rest. There was just no way Dean would – _could_ give him anymore than he already had. Which was close to nothing, but – hey – wasn't like Dean used to be the sharing and caring kinda guy before, right?

"I don't _believe_ you," Sam said, exhaustion and exasperation bleeding heavily from every syllable spoken.

"You won't believe…how many have said so before you," Dean quipped, could see Sam shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut at the statement. "And still you love me…" Dean added, just for the sake of it, satisfied to see the corner of Sam's mouth tick up ever so slightly before he had himself under control again.

The downwards pull of his body became stronger and Dean worked on sitting up straighter, to not let his body slip any further into what he knew would be hours of drug-induced slumber yet again. The meds had been long overdue, and his body reacted to the much needed relief almost greedily, even though they still didn't work quickly enough at all. He wanted to be as clear-headed as he could, wanted to stay awake as long as humanly possible. He didn't want to miss one minute…

Just as he was about to lever his body upright once more he felt Sam's hand shift from his leg to his shoulder, applying pressure that eased him down with way too little effort. A second later a scratchy blanket draped over him, momentarily intensifying the pressure on his whole body, pushing him back into the lumpy mattress. The comfort it provided was almost enough to carry him away right then and there.

But Dean fought it with all his might.

Not yet – not now.

"Dean," Sam sighed, leaning even closer towards him. "Stay down, alright? Go to sleep. You need the rest," he soothed gently, enticingly.

"'m good," Dean mumbled stubbornly, like a little kid that didn't want to go to bed at night as he watched Sam through bleary eyes "'m not tired,"

Sam's lip pinched, then relaxed and his eyes closed momentarily as he released a slow, deep breath. When he looked up again, straight at Dean, they were deep and soft and…Sam again.

Not Sam, the hunter-against-his-will.

Not Sam the petulant teenager that fought everything and everybody, most of all himself.

Not the Sam that had announced that he was leaving mere hours before walking out on them without seemingly ever looking back.

He was Sam, the little brother again.

_Dean's_ Sam.

"Dean, stop fighting this and just lay down for a while. I'll still be here when you wake up," he offered calmly, sincerely.

And god did Dean want to believe him…

Sam seemed to sense his reluctance and lowered his voice even more, adopting that lulling cadence that had always worked best on Dean whenever he was feverish or hurt.

"You can trust me," he pressed gently, accentuating his words with another reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

It wasn't voluntary, wasn't because he chose to, but finally Dean's eyes shut on their own accord, the pull of sleep and drugs finally too strong to fight off, no matter how determined he was.

'_I'll still be here.'_

"I miss you," He suddenly heard himself say, and it was only because he was already half asleep, his composure weakened by the drugs and weeks of being weak and broken that he didn't feel the absolute terror at the words spoken than he usually would have.

Before he knew it, it was too late, the words he'd never intended to say slipped past his oh-so well-built barrier and said out loud.

Sam of course, was aware of it – had to have been for a long time. They all knew how goddamn much Dean missed his little brother but there was no sense in dishing out the guilt here. Sam didn't need it, didn't deserve it just because he'd been smarter than Dean, had taken his chance.

And still…

"I'm here now," Sam offered softly, sincerely.

And, this time Dean chose to believe him, even though he knew that it wouldn't last. Because his brother hadn't really been _there_ long before he'd actually left.

OoOoOoO

Sam sat there for the longest time, just staring at his big brother as he slept.

His anger slowly dissipating he found himself more sad at his brother's unwillingness – or his inability to open up to him than he was still angry at him.

Sam was no idiot and he long ago had stopped believing in fairytales. He knew, as he'd known all along, that he would never get to know all the gory details of how Dean had ended up like…this. He'd be lucky if he ever learned half of it.

Dean didn't move in his sleep, which in itself was the most unusual thing. Dean _never_ stopped moving. Even asleep or unconscious he was damn hard to keep down most of the time.

He looked different now, almost relaxed, even though there still was such a stark contrast to the strong, unyielding and larger-than-life brother Sam knew.

Didn't look so strong now.

If this was Dean doing better, Sam didn't want to think too much about…before.

What little he had found out through one of Dean's hospital charts no more than three days ago when he'd been able to hack into online had been cold facts only, words written down in medical terminus, listing what he supposed to be his brother's injuries with sickening detail. Back then Sam had still had hope that this Dean Metcalf was not his brother after all, was just someone else, someone else's brother, someone else's son. Even though, inside, Sam had always known.

Because…the area-code of the phone number that woman had left on Sam's voicemail - and the gruesomeness of the injuries in general - there was just no way they could have been talking about anybody else _but_ his brother. But until Dean had confirmed his suspicions Sam still hadn't officially _known._

Sometimes, staying ignorant really was a blessing. Sam couldn't help but curse himself for not accepting that little wisdom and stop _digging_ his nails into everything like a stubborn little kid only to subsequently suffer from the knowledge he'd worked so hard to uncover.

Sam waited until he was absolutely sure that Dean was deeply asleep, the occasional hitch in his breathing the only sign he wasn't resting quite as peaceful as he appeared to. Only then did he remove his hand from his brother's shoulder where he'd put it to hold him down, hesitating only a second before running that hand over Dean's forehead, feeling for a fever.

The touch was purely practical, of course and he was ready to withdraw it again the second his brother woke up unexpectedly. God forbid Dean would think he did this out of affection…

He let his hand linger on the top of his brother's head for a moment, fingers lacing through his soft, messed up hair, reveling at the unfamiliar feel of it against his palm. It was a little too long – at least longer than Dean usually wore it. It was as clear a testament as to how messed up Dean had to have been if he hadn't even thought about cutting or at least styling it up like he usually did. Or maybe – for all Sam knew – Dean could be wearing it like this now. He really had absolutely no idea what his brother had been up to lately. Hell, maybe Dean even actually wore those baggy cargo pants Sam had seen lying on the floor next to the sofa…

"Maybe we all changed too much…" Sam whispered, felt the lump in his throat hitch and tremble as if it wanted to make its way up and out of his mouth, quickly swallowing back down.

But when push came to shove Sam knew that Dean always, always would remain his undeniable constant. Dean had always been there, hardly ever changed. While only a couple of years ago that thought had nearly driven Sam insane he had only recently come to realize how much he'd depended on that same knowledge all his life. It had been his only anchor in times of doubt, before and especially after he'd left for Stanford.

The only reason he'd prevailed, Sam knew, was because he'd always known that, no matter what happened, no matter what his dad had said to him, he'd always be able to come back.

Because his brother was there.

Because Dean would never shut him out of his life. Sam had no doubt about that.

He flinched as Dean's head suddenly turned against the pillow, face pinching up momentarily before going lax again. The tension in Sam's body immediately drained, though, as he realized that his brother hadn't woken, had merely turned his face towards Sam, towards the touch he'd felt even in his subconscious.

The gesture, once more, was almost too much.

Sam swallowed, rubbing his free hand roughly against the betraying wetness that started rising in his eyes.

He was _not_ going to falter now.

And he couldn't possible leave Dean, not right this moment, even if it was only to move to the other bed, merely two feet away. Reluctantly he removed his hand from his brother's brow, both moved and pained to notice how Dean's lips pinched in silent disapproval, head following after his hand, to not let it go.

But there wasn't enough space on the small bed, at least not against the headboard where Dean lay perched too close to the edge, so Sam scooted down the mattress and around his brother's outstretched legs until he had his back pressed against the wall. He clumsily toed his boots off his feet, pulling one leg up and tucking the foot underneath the other knee so could lay his shin along his brother's uninjured lower leg.

The contact was needed – for him as well as for Dean, who immediately reacted to the touch, no matter how light, shifted in sleep until their touch was sealed more tightly before settling down again.

His position was anything but comfortable, but for the moment Sam was content right where he was.

He'd had a long drive behind him – and a long road still ahead.

Sam was asleep within minutes.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_I got one thing to say in my defense. _

_I know I missed last week's post, but I was sick and stuck in bed for most of the week. There was just no thinking about writing - I really am sorry. I know i've been a bit...unrealiable lately, but right now I'm so busy trying to renovate my apartment (by myself, I might add) - in the middle of a heat-wave - realizing that I just have too many things stored in my closets and cupboards and even unerneath the bed... It's cleansing to throw so many things out, even though all the work, paired with my paid job apparently forced me to my knees just now. I'm still busy for at least another week or so, but i'll do my best to post without any bigger delays. _

_Well, I do hope that this chapter makes up for the longer wait - and for the last, short chapter. _

_I wish I could say I'm past being nervous about how you receive my writing, but I guess I never will. So, if you liked it, I will be - as I always was - very thankful if you leave me a note. Your reviews are what make all the work and worry worth it!_

_thank you all - take care!_


	25. Chapter 25

_I think I might finally be back again. After weeks of not knowing what to do next and where my head was, I finally can write again. You can't imagine how much I missed being able to sit down and just write...it's amazing. So, with as much conviction as I can find I will herewith promise to return to my regular updates again - unexpected catastrophies exluded. _

_This is again not beta-ed, which is entirely my fault because I was too slow in sending it off and I didn't want to miss another week's scheduled post. _

_I sincerely hope you'll enjoy!_

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 25**

He was awakened by silence.

Being the hunter that he was, he immediately knew something was wrong – or different than when he'd gone to sleep, even though his sluggish brain didn't immediately pick up on the reason of his worry.

It took him longer than usual to fully wake up, both body and mind almost reluctant to free themselves form the clutches of deep, long, dreamless sleep. Dean kept his eyes closed and his breathing as even as possible while he gave himself time to fully dig himself out of his stupor, for his mind to catch up on why he was feeling so unsettled.

For minutes he only lay there listening to the sounds of his own heartbeat, _felt_ the room around him with all his senses without actually looking. It didn't take long for him to realize what had woken him.

The room was empty.

Years of sharing a room and sometimes even a bed with his little brother had made him sensitive to the sounds of other people in the room with him to the point where he actually relied on those sounds to be able to sleep peacefully.

After Sam had left for Stanford it had taken Dean an eternity to get used to the new rhythms that directed his life, the new dynamics ruling his days as well as his nights. During the days he'd quickly learned to adapt - or at least pretend to adapt. It was what Dean did best, after all - accommodating himself to fit somebody else's needs.

During the day it was easy to pretend that everything was alright, that the new arrangements between his father and himself – the altered family dynamics - didn't bother him, did actually suit him just fine. He had a lot more time to himself, could listen to _his_ music driving in _his_ car without someone bitching about it, not always having to concentrate on the person sitting next to him. The responsibility of looking after his little brother had never bothered Dean, but he had also never realized how he had been…wired - on constant alert with Sam still around.

And still the sudden lack of that immediate responsibility didn't feel all that great.

The problems would come at night.

When the world got dark and suddenly the security of the day's layer of noise faded away and Dean truly was left alone with himself.

He missed his brother's presence like someone would miss a limb, missed hearing him snoring even, missed the quiet rhythm he used to fit his own breathing to when he had trouble settling down, when sleep once again eluded him. Dean missed Sam's heartbeat as if it were his own.

And he always dreaded waking up almost more than going to sleep.

There usually was that tiny window of time, a heartbeat or two only, when he woke up and wondered why he didn't hear his brother breathing in the bed next to his. He would lie awake, eyes still closed and wondering if Sam was up already, annoyed at the thought that his little brother was such an early riser and therefore always managed to call first dips on the shower, using up most of the hot water. Those minutes when Dean wasn't yet fully awake were good, peaceful, because no matter how pissed at the thought of a cold shower in the morning Dean would get, it was still something he could deal with – had dealt with all his life. It was…home.

And then he would remember that Sam wasn't in the shower, wasn't out to get some breakfast or up and packing the car already, giving Dean that extra 15 minutes or so to sleep off his hangover or sleep in after a night of grave-digging and corpse-burning and shooting creatures full of lead or salt or silver.

He remembered that he was alone – with Dad.

And now, waking up after what felt like hours of drug-induces sleep that made his body heavy and his mind unpleasantly languid, he realized that he was still alone.

The realization, as usual, cramped his stomach into a knot the size of a football, had his throat close up immediately. The sound of his own heartbeat became more distinct and he felt his pulse pushed against the soft skin of his throat for a beat, then another.

Sam wasn't here.

But then, _unlike_ those countless other times before, Dean remembered.

Because he was sure, absolutely sure, that Sam had been there when he'd fallen asleep.

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, found the light in the room low but still natural, suggesting that he'd slept till later afternoon.

Goddamnit.

Sam had come – had reacted to Dean's involuntary call for help and come all the way from Palo Alto to make sure that his big brother was alright.

But maybe Sam had left again, hadn't been able to wait until Dean woke up and just up and left without even saying goodbye. Which…didn't sound like Sam at all, even though he did have a history of leaving. There'd been that time in Flagstaff, when he'd been 15 or 16 and he'd simply up and disappeared for almost two weeks. Dean had found finally him, squatting in some rundown apartment, living off of Pizza and Dr. Pepper, never realizing how Dean had thought he'd been killed – or worse.

But, no – he wouldn't do that again. And certainly not now. Sam had learned from his mistakes, knew how much Dean needed to know about his brother's whereabouts after that incident.

So, He could stay right where he was, worrying himself sick and wondering if his brother would actually do something like this – or he could get his shit together and get up, get out of this room to find out for himself.

Dean had never been one to just wait for things to happen.

Pushing himself up and rolling out of bed was a tedious process, his muscles heavy from disuse and locked with pain, but he made it, leaning against the wall for a moment to catch his breath.

The door the living room was closed but right there, in the middle of it stuck a small, yellow post-it.

A message – which could only come from Sam. Dad never left any notes when he left, expected Dean to call when he wanted to know about his whereabouts only to not pick up the damn phone most times.

_We're right outside. Shout if you need something._

Definitely Sam.

Dean couldn't help the relieved smile that involuntarily pulled at the corners of his mouth, couldn't hold back the heavy exhale of breath that seemed to have been held hostage in his chest till now. His knees felt weak with relief, or maybe it simply was him feeling weak in general, his body really needing that break it had been bugging him about for the past month or so.

_Shout if you need something._

"Yeah, right," Dean huffed.

The crutches both leaned against the wall next to the bed and even though it felt far from comfortable, his shoulder raw and tender and definitely painful Dean opted on using both walking aids this time. He didn't think it wise to hobble across the house on one leg only – not right after waking up and still feeling a little shaky, at least.

He was almost at the door when he finally made out voices from the room beyond.

Two voices, both of them hushed and composed, but even from his compromised position behind a closed door Dean had no problem sensing the underlying air of tension that laced through the words, made them heavy and loaded, even though he couldn't yet understand their meaning.

So Sam and Dad were probably going at it again – or at least steadily building up toward it. But it couldn't be that bad, considering that they weren't shouting or even throwing stuff, like that one time in Tulsa when Dad had actually flung a chair across the room, he'd gotten so mad at Sam. Dean couldn't stand to hear his brother and father fighting, it almost physically hurt him when they spat venom at each other as if they weren't the only family they had.

Dean eased the door open, awkwardly balancing his weight while swinging the door inwards. Being on his feet, even if it was for such a short time only slowly awakened the pains all over his body again, igniting fires that had been simmering underneath the surface while he had been sleeping.

But Dean got distracted by the snippets of conversation he caught and he found himself holding his breath involuntarily, stopping to listen when in reality he wanted nothing more than to walk through that door and join his brother and father.

"You can't be serious,"

That was Sam's voice, low and seemingly composed, but Dean knew his brother better than anyone, knew that this was just the preliminary stage to him exploding, unleashing all that ever-pent-up fury and feelings of injustice done to him – to the whole world in general. Once Sam let go, he couldn't easily be stopped anymore – not without taking casualties along with him.

With a pang of sadness Dean realized that his brother and father weren't as composed as they had first appeared, that they were much closer to the breaking point than he had hoped.

"…you telling me you didn't know? You just went after it on the whim that it was a werewolf, alone, leaving Dean behind even he specifically told you that he…"

Sam broke off there, panting for breath as he had apparently forgotten to breathe during his rant that probably went on for a while already.

"He told you he saw you die? In his dream?" Sam finished, hands no doubt flailing, face all scrunched up in childish confusion that might have lookedf cute on a ten-year-old. Dean smirked at the thought as he carefully rolled his right shoulder against the sturdy support of the doorframe to keep himself from face planting right into the living room, breaking up the argument most effectively, if ungracefully.

"Yeah, Sam, that's what happened. Not like it was the first werewolf I hunted on my own. I've done this a lot longer than either of you," John voice sounded clipped and irritable.

Still Dean couldn't help but marvel at how composed his father still was. John had a history of snapping at a much less than Sam's current taunting tone of voice.

Like nobody else, Sam had always managed to scratch away John's already thin-layered patience, never knowing when he'd gone too far, when he'd reached raw nerves that would ignite John's temper like a spark igniting a wildfire.

"I still don't get this," Sam breathed out, frustration bleeding out of his every word. "he freaking _told_ you…"

"It was a dream, Sam. How the hell should I have known? Hell, he wasn't even sure about this himself. It's not like he is a damn psychic, for crying out loud,"

Dean felt a pang of hurt at his father's words, even though John was right. Dean probably wouldn't have believed it if John would have told the exact same story to him – if their roles had been reversed. If every stupid nightmare he'd ever had had actually come true… But the way John stated the obvious with that cold detachment - it still hurt. And John could have at least taken it into consideration, could have looked into the hunt some more, made sure he had all bases covered.

"You could have at least heard him out," Sam angrily spat back.

Count on Sam to at least agree with his brother on that part, even though Dean probably wouldn't have put it quite so bluntly.

As Sam continued, his voice was still low but trembling, tethering dangerously close to the edge.

"When has Dean _ever_ asked you to stay, Dad? When has he ever asked you to back away from a hunt, to reconsider your decisions? _I_ used to do it all the time – granted – but Dean...he always followed your goddamn lead, no matter what. It's about time you repay some of that trust,"

John sucked in an audible breath as the accusation hurled at him hit home – hard.

"Don't you start teaching me about trust, Sam. I did hear him out. And I made a decision. Do you really think I went into this hunt – _any hunt_ - unprepared?"

"Well, apparently you did this time. I mean, a skinwalker, Dad… It could have…"

The silence following Sam's sentence felt suffocating and Dean could imagine the look on his brother's face, the look on his father's, too. But he did appreciate the effort the two of them seemed to put into keeping it down, to not jump at each other as had so many times before. Dean had no doubt that it was solely due to his own physical weakness that the truce was temporary at best and only because they feared to wake Dean, not because they'd finally decided to be respectful toward each other.

When Sam started talking again the edge to his voice was a little more pronounced already and even though he still kept the volume low Dean knew they were rapidly nearing the point where neither his sibling nor his father would care about keeping up the appearance anymore.

"…how the hell could you not have known? I mean…you were the one always drilling into us how going in prepared was the most important thing, covering all bases, not leaving anything to chance. You…you would have gotten our asses whipped if either of us would have gone out as ill-prepared as you…"

Dean winced at his brother's direct accusation, knew that it wouldn't sit well with John at all. He was moving out of the den before he even heard his father's answer, amazed at how exhausting it was to even tackle the stupid doorjamb, wondering how he'd ever made it into the woods – and back again – not to talk about the scuffle with the wolf in-between.

"Sam," Dean heard his father almost growl in protest to the disrespectful barb of his youngest.

"What, you good with dishing out the blame about a hunt gone bad, but when it comes to _taking_ the blame you're not so generous, all of a sudden?" Sam practically hissed.

When Dean rounded the corner and stepped into the living room, facing the open kitchen neither his brother nor his father seemed to be aware of his presence at first. It didn't surprise Dean – he knew from experience that, when they got into it like this all their attention was solely focused onto each other, too engrossed in their argument to take notice of anything else around them.

When they fought, they forgot the world and everything else in order to not lose one precious snippet of scorn, to aim every bit of energy available to spit out accusation and allegations at each other.

This time, apparently, wasn't any different.

Both of them stood stock-still, trapped in an almost violent paralysis, muscles locked with anger and indignation, unwilling to give one inch to the other.

They looked like two rabid dogs, snarling and hackles raised, body rigidly erect, taxing each other and ready to jump the minute the other gave even the slightest sign of weakness, and opening to dig their teeth in to the bone. If it wasn't for the width of the table still between them, Dean was sure they'd be in each other's faces already.

Sam stood with his arms held rigidly by his sides, fists clenched while the vein on his forehead stood out dangerously against his tanned skin. John, opposite him had both his hands clamped around the backrest of one of the kitchen chairs, leaning onto the wooden support as if it was the only thing tethering him to the spot at the moment. They were both listing towards each other as if pulled by invisible strings, barely still resisting the force that had made them clash against each other on so many occasions in the past. Both of them were practically bristling, the air in the room laden with nervous energy and Dean had the impression that the hair on the back of his own neck actually stood up as he drew closer toward the two opponents.

They still hadn't noticed Dean so he took another step, his left shoulder throbbing as it was forced to carry his weight even for this short a time already.

"You have no right to talk to me like that," John growled, low in his throat, his chin tipped low, his usually soft brown eyes two flinty orbs now that would have made any other man tremble with fear in front of him.

Sam, of course, would use that exact look to just push onward even more.

"Oh yeah? Because I think I do. I saw what that thing did to Dean. I saw what happened to him because you didn't even manage to take care of yourself, let alone him. You almost got Dean killed, Dad. There's nothing else I need to know but that,"

There was a cord of muscle in John's neck that jumped once, hard, the corners of his mouth drawing up into what at first sight appeared to be a smile but instantly turned into an almost animalistic snarl.

"Dad," Dean tried to interfere, but his voice, rough and low from hours of disuse was easily drowned out by a sudden bang as the legs of the chair John was holding onto slammed hard against the floor.

"Don't bring your brother into this, Sam. If you've got a problem with me, just…"

"Don't bring Dean into this? This is all about him, Dad. Did you take a good look at him? He almost got killed, goddamnit…I almost lost him…"

At that Dean's head snapped back automatically, the raw emotion in his brother's voice enough to halt his immediate indignation at being discussed without him being present.

"You're not the only one who almost lost him, Sam. I was there, remember? I found him…I…I was here all this time, seeing him suffer. I was the one sitting by his bed when the doctors didn't know if he was going to make it through this and I was the one who practically carried him out of there afterwards. I was _there_, Sam,"

He didn't say it, but the words 'Where were you?' were echoing across the silent room like they were blasting from a freaking boom-box.

John's flinty gaze was pinned onto his youngest, accusation bleeding out of his every pore and for a moment Dean was dumbstruck by the emotions radiating from both his brother and father, couldn't contemplate that this…it was all because of him. They were fighting over him, goddamnit, where all Dean wanted – needed – was for them to just _stop_.

"What, you want a medal for staying with him? You want someone to compliment you on staying by your son's side when he was hurt – because of a life _you_ forced on him?" Sam asked angrily, voice slowly but steadily rising in volume.

It always started like this and within minutes they'd both be yelling at the top of their lungs.

"I'm not the one who ran away," John hissed, and that was the one drip of water that made the bucket overflow.

Dean tightened his grip on the crutch, painfully pulling himself a half step forward.

"Hey, you guys…" he croaked out, cursing his own voice for coming out hoarse and weak and basically inaudible. This whole being weak-and-helpless-routine he had going here would have to stop soon or else Dean didn't think he'd be able to hold onto that last shred of dignity he had still left anymore.

Sure enough, both Sam and John stayed oblivious to his presence.

"I didn't run, 't was you who threw me out," Sam spat and Dean could have sworn he felt the energy in the room bristling, a tickling sensation running all over his skin, raising goose-bumps along his arms and chest.

"You made that decision, Sam. Don't you go and pin that on anyone else but yourself. You left us, not the other way around."

"Yeah I left. But I did nothing to deserve being cast out like this…I," Sam broke off, teeth baring and eyes squeezing shut almost violently for a second. When he opened them again they were cold and hard and, if at all possible, pinned on John's face with even more indignant pain and accusation than before.

"This is on you, Dad – and nobody else. Don't _you_ dare and try to pin that on _me_,"

Sam's anger, his pain wrapped around Dean like a smothering blanket, seeping into his pores to contaminate his very being.

Dean felt sick to the stomach, knowing that his brother suffered like this. If only Dean had been stronger, had been able to keep his injuries a secret…Sam deserved being at school, living the life he thought best for himself. It didn't matter that Dean didn't have the same dreams of happiness as him.

But Dean was supposed to be the one standing between John and Sam, absorbing the shockwaves of their emotions, always. He was the one that had to make sure they didn't hurl accusations at each other that they would come to regret later.

He had already failed once before, and look where it had led them.

All Dean had ever wanted was to keep his brother safe, keep him happy.

And he wanted to make it better now, despite everything. Despite not knowing how to make things better for Sam without giving up yet another part of himself.

John let go of the chair he'd been holding onto, both his hands balling into fists.

"Sam, stop - or so help me god…"

"Or what, Dad, you gonna throw me out again? Is that it?" Sam challenged , chin jutting forward defiantly. "Well, I think I can save you the trouble,"

Sam took a step back from the table, his focus still on John as he physically removed himself a little, as if needing the space all of a sudden.

"I won't be staying much longer. I gotta leave first thing tomorrow morning,"

The room fell silent so suddenly that for an insane moment Dean thought that someone had turned off the sound.

Sam stood very still, his eyes a little downcast, something akin to regret twisting his features into a weird mask of both anger and pain. John just looked…stunned, and it took Dean a moment to catch up with what Sam had just said.

As the implication of Sam's last statement slowly settled, Dean felt his heart flutter inside his chest, thudding hard and painfully against his ribcage all of a sudden.

Sam would leave again tomorrow. _Tomorrow_.

Sure he hadn't thought Sam was going to stay indefinitely – Dean had _known_ that they would part ways again sooner rather than later. And the question had loomed somewhere in the back of Dean's mind ever since Sam had stepped through the door, but he'd been too afraid to ask, too afraid of the answer he would get. So he hadn't voiced it out loud.

It figured that it would jump Dean the moment he'd least expect it, though.

Another _night _only.

For the longest time Dean was rendered speechless, his head suddenly feeling empty and too full at the same time, throat dry as if he'd walked across the desert for days without water.

_Tomorrow. _

It wasn't anywhere_ near _long enough_. _

Suddenly Dean couldn't stand staying in the room, needed to get out and away, get some fresh air.

He was halfway across the room and toward the door leading to the back porch when he heard someone at his back call his name. But he didn't stop, the air in the room becoming too thick to breathe and he just _needed_ to get outside. Just for a moment and he would be ready to face them again – a moment to clear his own head, get his defenses back up before he could figure out a way to break up the fight and find a way to keep his brother and father from bashing each others heads in during those last hours they would have together.

Just a moment to figure out what hurt less – the fact that Sam would only stay for another night, or the fact that he hadn't told Dean about it. He couldn't help but wonder _when _Sam would have told him, how long he would have waited…

…if he would have told him at all…

"Dean, wait,"

Through the haze still clouding his mind Dean saw a large figure pushing itself between himself and his escape and he was both amazed and annoyed by the fact that he couldn't move fast enough to get away.

"I gotta get some air," he mumbled, pushing forward and forcing whoever it was to move out of the way quickly before he almost slammed his bad shoulder right into the human obstacle in his path.

"Dean…come on," someone pleaded imploringly.

But Dean pushed on, finally made it to the door and fumbling with the screen for a moment before succeeding in pushing it open without abandoning the hold on either of his crutches. He made it outside into the cool early evening air with the last fragment of his honor still intact.

Once he was out on the back porch, the screen door banging closed behind his back, he stopped – had to stop because his shoulder wouldn't tolerate one more step. He felt the nerves underneath the skin quiver and shake, tendrils of pain sneaking their way up and down his arm. But he couldn't sit down, not without running the danger of not being able to get back up again. And he certainly couldn't go back inside.

Dusk had already started to settle over the backyard, the sky above the line of trees a little ways in the distance slowly coloring into a brilliant orange. It was dirt - Dean remembered Sam telling him once - that made the sky color so vividly, creating what most people perceived as a romantic sunset. But in reality it was dirt-particles or soot and grime flying around in the atmosphere, reflecting the rays of the sun like that. Ever since Sam had told him, Dean couldn't help but smirk when he witnessed a sunset like this, thinking about the thousands of couples all over the world, sitting arm in arm, watching as dust and soot colored the sky, sighing and kissing and thinking how it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Right now not even that thought helped to loosen him up, though.

He took a deep breath, felt his chest flutter a little as the air made its way into his lungs haltingly. But he could breathe again and every new breath became a tiny bit easier than the last.

And when a couple of minutes later he heard the screen door at his back squeal open, then bang closed again he was as prepared as he would get.

OoOoOoO

TBC

_AN:_

_Thank you all so much for reading, and special thanks to Masondixon - you know what for. _

_I know Sam leaving again so soon might seem a bit harsh, but I thought it important to show that, no matter how little time Sam had at hand, he still came for his brother. It makes the long drive mean even more, in my opinion, if he only came for a day and a night, just to check on Dean. And maybe I can make Dean realize that, too. I hope you agree with me on this one. _

_I am amazed at how many people still stick with this story, even though I was more than a little unrealiable lately. I really, really wish you'll not give up on me now, of all times. This is obviously nearing the end, but it doesn't mean I don't still rely on your revioews to keep me going for the last stretch of the way. _

_Please, if you find the minute, leave me a review - you'll make my day and feed my confidence and most definitely will keep me going. _

_Thanks so much and hope to see you guys again next week!_


	26. Chapter 26

_Thank you so, so much for coming back. _

_I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 26**

Dean's sudden appearance managed to stop their fight as if someone had dumped a bucket full of ice-cold water right over their heads.

And still it took a while until it settled, until Sam grasped the implication of why Dean brushed past them without a word, ignoring Sam's pleas to stop.

_Dean had heard…_

And just like that all the fight left Sam.

"Shit," he breathed, suddenly trembling as the residual anger seeped out of his system, was replaced by shock of what he – what _they_ had done.

He practically _felt_ his own face crumble, and he didn't even care to look at his father to see if he at least had the decency to feel bad about letting it all get out of hand – again.

All Sam knew was that he hadn't wanted for Dean to find out like this.

He should have told him, Sam was painfully aware of that.

Delaying the inevitable had never done anybody any good – Sam knew that one from experience. It only served to make matters so much worse, in the end. And still he hadn't found it in him to confront Dean with his too soon departure right from the start, not after seeing him so…broken. Not after seeing the absolute, honest to the core relief and happiness in his brother's face when he'd entered the shabby, rundown safe-house, re-entered his brother's life without forewarning.

Sam hadn't managed to break his brother even further, shatter the obvious hope he'd seen in his eyes – the hope that Sam would stay, that things would return to _normal_ again. What Dean didn't seem to understand, though, was the fact that their _normal_ wasn't what would make Sam happy. It meant they were together again, sure, which was something Sam wanted too.

But it also meant that they would slip back into their old routine – Dad taking the lead and Dean following behind faithfully, blindly, giving up a piece of himself in order to accommodate both his brother's and his father's needs.

It meant going back to hunting, to hurting – to fighting both the supernatural and each other.

Sam didn't understand how Dean couldn't see it, how he could stay oblivious, even after all this time apart. Bus Sam was just so done fighting. He was done worrying for his family's safety as well as his own. He was done running.

Dejectedly, Sam watched his brother push past him as he tried to stop him, tried him to slow down at least - to look at him. Dean wouldn't be able to just shut him out if he would only look at him for a second, see in Sam's eyes how sorry he was, how he wanted to make it all better.

But Dean barely acknowledged Sam's tries to hold him back, mumbled something about needing to get some air while hauling his battered body forward and in the end Sam could only step back, give him space in order to keep him from hurting himself further.

Sam knew Dean needed a minute, maybe two to come back down, clear his head. Sam needed the exact same thing.

But there was no question whether or not Sam needed to follow his brother outside, to at least try and make Dean understand.

For a moment he just stood there, staring as the screen-door closed behind his brother's bowed back, aware of his father standing mere feet behind him, deadly still as well. They seemed to have stopped breathing, as if their fight had sucked all the air out of the room. Sam's head was still ringing from all that had been said, mind reeling and chest aching as he realized how close he'd once again come to lose himself in his own anger, forgetting everything else but his own need for justice.

He'd had the best intentions – back when John had come home and found Sam sleeping in Dean's bed next to his brother. When Sam had woken up, he'd caught John watching him, silently, and then they had started talking. It had all gone surprisingly well, too – all through John's terrifying narrative of how Dean had gone missing, how he had called John – how John had managed to find him. It had been a clear and frightening testimony to how fucking scared John had been, how shaken he still was by the whole incident when his voice had broken as he described Dean's injuries, albeit hesitantly, relaying their too early escape from the hospital in the barest details.

Sam had been thrown completely off track by his father's honesty. And still he knew that the details were still not the whole truth, were barely scratching the surface of what had really gone down. But he had stayed quiet – for his brother's sake, mostly – right up until Dad had come to the matter of the werewolf – the one that had turned out to be a skinwalker and that's were things had gotten a little…out of hand.

Because that, most definitely, wasn't something Sam could grasp, could understand. He couldn't believe his father's slightly incoherent ramblings – about Dean having dreams – or visions – about crows and John dying and Dean seeing it all in his dreams. There were just too many inconsistencies, first and foremost the case of John going out to hunt a freaking werewolf – alone – without first making sure he knew what he was up against, despite his son's warnings, his pleadings to stay. Despite leaving behind his badly injured son.

That was when Sam had snapped. And it had all gone south very quickly from there.

And here he was now, once again, trying to figure out how to explain to Dean that he was leaving – had to be leaving and that he hadn't told Dean because he had feared his reaction, had feared he'd been asked to stay. Because he hadn't been sure he'd been able to ignore that plea – still wasn't sure how he could, if Dean actually came out and asked him. Despite everything his brother and father might think of him, Sam wasn't the cold-hearted bastard that he was pegged so easily to be.

Because he did care – more than he'd ever be able to tell.

He would do anything for his brother.

"I'll go talk to him," Sam finally mumbled, found his voice trembling slightly.

He turned his head, appraised his father – daring him to hold him back, to tell him not to go, to tell him to get the hell out and leave them alone… But all John did was hold Sam's gaze for a moment before giving a gentle nod, sending him off with as much of a wordless encouragement as he could muster.

Sam stopped at the screen-door leading out onto the porch, taking a steadying breath. He could see Dean standing out there, unmoving, staring over the vast expanse of the backyard and the woods beyond. Sam knew that it was the worst sign – Dean standing absolutely still, even though he assumed that part of it was due to his physical inability to move much at all without going down still. But Dean was motion, was bristling energy. And Sam would take Dean yelling and throwing punches over this stoic silence anytime.

The door opened with an almost ominous creak and Sam momentarily squeezed his eyes shut at the unexpected noise, cursing himself for being so clumsy.

He approached his brother carefully, as he would a wild animal, expecting him to pounce on him if he got too close too fast, burying his teeth into Sam's flesh in his panic.

But Dean didn't acknowledge his approach in the slightest, instead stayed where he was at the edge of the porch, a mere step away from the stairs that led into the yard. He had his back to Sam, stood quiet and unmoving yet listing slightly forward and to the right as he leaned most of his weight onto his right leg and the right crutch, favoring his entire left side. But he was standing, wasn't outwardly trembling or threatening to fall, which was more than Sam would have thought possible, considering the way he'd looked just this morning.

Sam let the screen-door slip shut behind his back, quickly checking that Dad wasn't following him outside. But John remained where Sam had left him and while he could still see him standing there, looking a little lost and alone, he was sure that he wouldn't be able to hear what was spoken between the brothers.

Because Sam needed some time alone with his brother, and that John had never dared to interfere with. One could say whatever he wanted about John Winchester, but he had always given them their privacy, had always known when to back off, when they needed only each other.

"Dean," Sam started, toning his voice low and placating, hoping to get his brother to not shut him out before he could get through to him.

He knew he was walking a fine line here. It didn't take much to have Dean shut down, to have him retreat back inside himself and not let Sam in, not let anyone in anymore. No matter how much Dean was hurting, how personal his pain was, Sam knew that Dean could push all that aside, bury it deep and not let it see the light of day for a long, long time to come.

Knowing his brother's ways of dealing with pain of both the emotional as well as the physical kind had taught Sam early on that he had to weigh his words very carefully, had to weigh his actions, too. If he so much as breathed the wrong way, stepped into his brother's personal space too early or too late it would all be over as quickly as he could blink.

"Dean, hey," Sam took a careful step closer, staying to the side and little ways behind his brother, waiting for Dean to acknowledged his presence.

For the longest time, Dean didn't move. He just stood there, staring out over the backyard with that slightly faraway look in his eyes.

It reminded Sam a lot of some 19 months back, when he'd confronted his father with his decision to go to college, all consequences be damned. He'd planned on telling his brother but of course had been too much of a coward to pull it off. Instead, he'd ended up yelling it into his father's face and Dean, once again, had been caught in the middle.

They had ended up trying to figure out how to handle all the things that had remained unspoken between them in the silence that had ensued the fight Sam had with their Dad, giving them mere minutes before Sam left his family for good.

Back then Sam had done most of the talking with Dean standing there, silently hearing him out.

Sam knew that, once Dean got like this, he could maintain his silence for quite a while. But he was painfully aware that they didn't have that kind of time now.

"Come on dude, don't do this," Sam pleaded, prepared to resume his plea for his brother to not shut him out when Dean suddenly sagged a little, his shoulders rolling forward, chin dropping towards his chest.

Sam took a quick step forward, reaching out to catch his brother as Dean's eyes closed, but before he could make contact, close his hand around his big brother's biceps Dean shook his head once, curtly. Sam reacted immediately, clenching the helping hand into a fist and dropping it to his side, halting his step in mid-motion.

_Too early…_

"When did you plan on telling me?" Dean asked and his voice cut through his former silence like a knife, had Sam sucking his lips against his teeth to stop the automated indignant comeback to Dean's question to spill from his mouth. It was almost like an inbred reaction to any accusation voiced against him – to defend himself, even when knowing that said accusation wasn't all that unfounded.

It took him a moment to realize that Dean's voice didn't sound challenging, didn't sound accusatory even. It just sounded…tired – resigned. It managed to pull Sam down again quickly.

"I…I didn't want to…I didn't know how…" Sam flailed helplessly.

He saw Dean opening his eyes again, his chin still down, head turned towards him but his eyes remained shadowed by long lashes above, dark grayish circles below. His profile was a fuzzy dark outline against the rapidly reddening evening sky.

"I'm no idiot, Sam. I knew you weren't going to stay," he said.

Somehow Sam doubted that statement, though.

"I just didn't want to what little time we had together to be…spoiled by this – by you knowing. It would have ruined everything," Sam admitted calmly, hoping to make Dean see that he himself hadn't wanted to face his own departure, not so soon after finally finding his family – his brother again. It was bad enough that he felt like a bastard for leaving Dean in the first place, feeling like even more of one for leaving Dean now, in his condition, after seeing what his absence had done to his brother.

"Yeah, because it would have been so much better just waking up and finding you gone again," Dean mused, bitterness seeping into his words, even though he clearly lacked the strength to deliver the remark with all the sarcasm he wanted to.

"I wouldn't have just left," Sam parried, hurt that his brother would think something like this, remembering too late that it had happened once before, that his last goodbye hadn't given Dean much time to prepare, either.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean sighed, turning away.

Once again he swayed a little on his foot, his balance totally shot to hell. Sam could see that he'd pretty much shifted all of his weight onto his right crutch now, fingers of his left hand only lightly curled around the plastic handle, unable to strain the injured limb any further.

His shoulder couldn't be ready to bear his weight, not after what it had looked like mere hours before. Involuntarily, Sam winced at the memory of raw and swollen flesh, of inflamed stitches and bruises on top of even more bruises.

"Dean, why don't you sit down," Sam started but he was rewarded with yet another curt shake of his brother's head which under other circumstances would have probably managed to shut him up as it had before.

But this time the small but decisive movement of Dean's head was enough to make his balance falter completely. He swayed more heavily, like a leaf ready to be ripped off the tree with a gust of heavy wind and the crutch slipped out of his left hand and clattered to the ground a moment later.

Dean reached out and Sam thought he tried to grasp onto the porch railing, the wall – anything, realizing after a second only that his brother actually reached out for _him_.

Without second thought Sam took one big step forward, reaching his brother's side and sliding one arm across his back while placing the other flat against Dean's chest, sparing his injured left limb while trying to steady him as best as he could. He tried his best to ignore the raw grunt of pain spilling from Dean's lips, the harsh breaths – the near whimper of defeat as their ungraceful descent strained his injured body without mercy.

He remained mindful of Dean's injuries, kept his hands as far away from the deepest bruising and the still tender gashes but knew that, no matter how careful he was, he would cause his brother further pain.

The only thing left to do was keep the damage to a minimum.

Sam saw Dean set his jaw in frustration as his body betrayed him so terribly. He almost growled as Sam pulled him back from the porch's edge with gentle force, shuffled their tangling limbs and helped him sit down on the cracked wooden floor, back against the porch railing, legs splayed out in front of him. Sam would have felt much more comfortable getting Dean inside, onto the sofa or the bed even, but he knew Dean wouldn't go for it – and maybe Sam himself wasn't ready to re-enter the confines of the house just yet.

Sam helped his brother sit, quietly arranging his broken leg while waiting for Dean to ease the rest of his body into a position he could tolerate without relinquishing too much of the picture of control he wanted to convey. Once Dean was settled, his breathing back down to a somewhat normal level and his jaw not creaking with the pressure he put on it, Sam rocked back onto his heels. With one last, reluctant squeeze of his brothers thigh he broke the contact and sat back against the wall of the house.

They sat facing each other and Sam shifting his shoulders against the peeling paint of the house's wall so he would be able to keep eye-contact with his brother, mirroring Dean's posture as they sat opposite each other, their legs touching in the middle of the narrow expanse of the porch.

For the longest time, Dean just kept his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wooden railing. His Adam's apple bobbed occasionally and Sam could see a fine sheen of sweat had started to cover the stubbly skin on his brother's face and neck, but his breathing remained steady, calm. When Dean finally opened his eyes again, Sam cringed at the rawness he detected in them, if only for a moment before Dean had his walls up and firmly in place once more

"So, tomorrow," Dean started, giving Sam the opening he'd been waiting for, the sign to go on and get this out of the way so they could spent their last hours together in whatever pretense of peace they could establish.

"Yeah," Sam ran the palms of his hands over his denim-clad thigh, trying to wipe off the nervous perspiration that made his hands slick, betraying his otherwise composed posture. "The car I borrowed - my neighbor's got to have it back by Monday morning. If I leave tomorrow morning and not stop for the night, I should just about make it…"

"You drove all this way just to be here for one day?" Dean questioned, unbelieving, maybe a little awed.

Sam looked at his brother, hard, hoping he would see the sincerity in his next statement.

"I would have done it for less than that."

Dean just looked at him.

"You know I would have come if you'd have _told_ me you were hurt," Sam defended himself with more vigor, hurt that his brother would doubt the truth of his words.

"I know you would have," Dean placated, but Sam couldn't help but feel that familiar pang of injustice, the feeling that his family thought he didn't love them as unconditionally as they loved him.

Dean didn't hold the fucking monopoly of devoting himself for those he loved, goddamn it, he wasn't the only one who'd ever sacrificed anything in the name of family…

"I _know_, Sam," Dean repeated more gently this time and it wasn't until Sam unclenched his fingers, unlocked his jaw that he realized that he'd actually tensed up, that his anger must have shown in his face as it so easily did. Sometimes he just wished to be as in control of his expression as his brother was, even though he himself had cursed Dean for just that ability more than once.

Trust Dean, of course, to see the indignation Sam was trying to hard to battle down and once again beat him to it and make amends, to step back and alleviate the tension, pushing his own feelings aside.

"I wish…I could have stayed longer," Sam hedged, carefully weighing his words, to get them out just right.

Dean pulled himself up a little straighter, cradling his left arm in his lap with his right hand, unconsciously massaging his biceps right above the elbow to stop a stubbornly trembling muscle from shaking. His focus was slightly off center, trained on a point just below Sam's chin so he could avoid direct eye-contact.

"Yeah, well…better than nothing," Dean mumbled, and Sam knew he didn't mean really mean it, that Dean was aching for more time just like Sam was but that he'd equally never admit to it.

For both of them it was a matter of their damn pride to just get out in the open how much they'd missed each other. But for Sam it somehow was even more important to keep his game-face on because if he showed one shred of weakness, one tiny opening in his resolve, he had no doubt Dad and Dean would jump on it, would use it to once again draw Sam back into their lives.

And he'd sworn he was done with hunting. Which didn't mean that he couldn't also miss his brother, goddamnit. He had every goddamn right to be homesick for his brother, crave the only home he'd ever known. And still he could stay gone, didn't need to crawl back with his tail between his legs like a beaten puppy. People did it all the time. They left. And still they could love the people they left behind and come back home during school-breaks and for the holidays.

But both John and Dean would definitely see it differently.

"I just wish…I'd have known from the start, is all," Dean finally said, ripping Sam out of his reverie.

"What would have changed if you'd known?" Sam asked, honestly wanting to know Dean's answer even though eh was pretty sure he knew his brother's intentions.

Dean shrugged, tilting his head to the side and appraising Sam from underneath lowered lashes.

"I would have…" he started but bit off the sentence before finishing it.

"…you would have pushed yourself harder, wouldn't have gone to sleep but stayed awake as long as possible, risking your health, abusing your body just so you didn't miss one minute," Sam finished for him.

Again Dean only half shrugged, half nodded.

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh.

"I herewith rest my case," he deadpanned and shot Dean a challenging look.

Dean's eyes sparked in defiance, which was about a hundred times better than the flat defeat of before.

For a minute or two they stared at each other, Dean's eyes finally drifting off and to the side, toward the side of the house where the back of the carport pushed against the wooden banister of the porch, staring at it as if he was looking for answers in the worn and chipped wood.

Sam kept looking at his brother, checking Dean's torso. Right underneath the white t-shirt his brother was wearing now Sam could make out the thick patches of gauze he himself had taped to the bite-wounds in Dean's shoulder this morning. With a worried frown he noticed a little darker spot on Dean's upper shoulder, realizing that his brother had probably overdone it a little with walking on the crutches, straining the stitches, maybe even pulling or busting one. He was just about to say something when Dean's voice pulled his attention away from his brother's injuries and back to his face, though.

"So, you and dad…" Dean started still staring off to the side.

Again Sam swallowed, rubbing his hands against his thighs in an almost compulsive gesture.

"He told me, Dean. Everything. About what happened to you, the black dog and the werewolf and your…dreams,"

As Sam mentioned the dreams Dean's head snapped over to him, eyes flashing dark momentarily, his chin dipping low as his head jerked back. And there it was again, that muscle in Dean's jaw jumping once, twice - straining the too pale skin on his sunken cheeks.

"'t was nothing, Sam. Just some damn dreams. You used to have those all the time. Nothing to get all excited about." He pressed out in a clipped voice.

"Yeah, I can see that. That's what dad said, too. Funny thing is, for those dreams meaning nothing, it seems to me they do have an impressive tendency to come true, don't they?" Sam challenged.

"Again, Sam – it was nothing. Just a damn coincident is all. Maybe some awesome gut-feeling on my part."

"What are you scared of, Dean? That you have the third eye, the shining or whatever? You think you are a freak for seeing things that might be beyond our comprehension? With everything we've seen you should know better than to dismiss this so vigorously. All those questions about crows…you got me thinking. We could look into this…"

"Sam, I'm not a freaking psychic," Dean insisted and Sam could see his brother tensing up, muscles in his right arm bulging as he clenched his fingers into iron-fists.

"Would it be so terrible if you were? I mean…you saved Dad's life…" Sam faltered, not knowing how to go on, to make his point without forcing Dean to retreat further.

He didn't know why it was so damn important to him that Dean accepted this…whatever _this _was – or had been, be it a new addition to their lives or just something temporary. But Sam used to be the one having weird dreams all his life, nightmares that Dean easily enough explained away for him, pulled him out of.

Sam had only recently come to realize how much of the pressure of those dreams Dean had taken away from him by simply being there with him, holding his hand or even letting him sleep in his bed when they'd still been younger and sharing a bed hadn't been socially awkward. And still there was a part of him that always asked himself if those dreams – maybe – were more than just dreams. There had been times in the recent past when Sam could have sworn…

"I didn't save Dad's life, Sam. At least not because of any damn vision I had," Dean lowly stated.

"What…Dean – he could have shot that damn wolf full of silver till it was constipated till kingdom come and still it would have ripped him to shreds if you hadn't showed up, hadn't put two and two together," Sam intervened.

Dean always tended to sell himself short, but surely he couldn't miss the importance of this…

"Yeah so…still doesn't make me hero of the day," Dean parried, eyes once again hidden, only flicking them up at Sam through the thick curtain of his lashes, effectively shielding himself from closer inspection.

Automatically Sam ducked his own head, hoping to breach his brother's barrier.

"If this doesn't, then what does, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer, rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and looked away. For a moment Sam thought it was because his brother really considered his words. He should have known better, though.

"Well, I guess we're even, then – me and Dad - seeing how he saved _my_ life when finding me in that field after I thought it would be smart to go solo hunting a black dog,"

"Dean, that wasn't…"

"Wasn't my fault? How was that not my fault, huh? How can you not blame me for doing something so incredibly stupid like hunting solo, but you are willing to lay all the blame on Dad when he does the exact same thing?" Dean challenged, green eyes flashing with hurt and anger – at himself more than at anybody else, Sam knew.

"Dad went even though you told him not to, Dean. He went unprepared…"

"And I went even though I _knew_ that hunting a black dog wasn't a job for one man alone. I went because I was pissed at Dad, because we had a fucking argument about god knew what. Because it seems like now that you're gone he can't even look me in the eyes anymore, thinking harder about when he can bail out on me again than staying and hunting with me instead. I might not have acted against a direct order, but I acted against my better judgment, Sam, against everything I believe in. Tell me - how does that make any difference at all? How does it make my mistake any less stupid than Dad's?"

For a second Sam was rendered speechless by his brother's explanation, was struck by the way Dean relayed the events – with such self-loathing when it came to his own mistake while at the same time being willing to write John's mistake off as a mere formality. And he was thrown off track a little by his brother's view of the events. For the first time he realized that John hadn't with one word mentioned the fight that had led to Dean taking off to hunt the black dog by himself, hadn't put one word of blame on his eldest for it, either.

"Dad doesn't blame you for that, Dean," Sam ventured, carefully.

There it was again, that inexplicable surge of helplessness at how fucked up their family was, how they could accept blame, but praise and forgiveness seemed like unconquerable obstacles.

"Yeah, right – he doesn't. Just like you don't blame him for going after the wolf by himself either, right? Was that why the two of you were going at it again, tearing at each others throats like pit bulls? Because we're such a forgiving, caring family?" Dean mused with a smile that didn't quite manage to reach his eyes.

"Yeah, I do blame Dad, Dean. I do blame him for not listening to you, for not giving second thought to your input,"

Dean snorted a bitter laugh.

"The two of you are just priceless, you know? You blame Dad for not patting my head and telling me everything's going to be alright when I fucked up so royally, I almost got myself killed? I mean, look at me, do I look like I made the goddamn right choices back then?"

Sam shook his head, searching his brother's reasoning for a loophole, searching his own brain for a good enough explanation, to make Dean see…

"And you of all people, Sam…I mean, come on. You want to teach me about forgiveness while you and him can't even be in the same room for more than a couple of minutes at a time without wanting to kill each other?"

The accusation made Sam cringe with barely concealed indignation, had him flex his hands and set his jaw with the effort to not leash out, shoot back at his brother – to accept the blame that wasn't quite as unfounded as he wanted it to be.

"Dad and I…we just talked…" Sam started meekly, knowing full well how lame he sounded. And he did feel guilty for not even being able to hold on to whatever tiny window of peace they'd established, had let his temper get the better of him once again and done exactly what Dad had expected of him. He'd lashed out, his worry for Dean together with all that pent up resentment toward their father making him react in bouts of childish temper instead of holding himself in check.

"Yeah, I heard you talking alright," Dean huffed without humor, shifting and looking away and Sam almost missed the flash of hurt dulling Dean's intense gaze – almost. It took him a moment to realize that this time Dean's pain had less to do with the wounds marking his body but rather from something much deeper, much more painful even.

Dean always had been hurting most when Sam and John had fought. The only time Sam had ever seen his brother really, truly hurting – on the outside – was during or after one of Sam's more serious _arguments _with their Dad.

"I just wish…" Dean started, biting off the sentence with a frown that showed Sam that he hadn't spoken without thinking it through first.

"You just wish what?" Sam prompted, gently as he leaned forward, closing the distance between his brother and himself, hoping to be able to draw Dean's attention back to him.

All his life he'd been so used to having his brother's eyes on him, looking out for him. He felt exposed and open to attack whenever Dean's gaze swayed from him for any longer period of time.

"You wish what, Dean?" he tried again when Dean didn't immediately react to his question.

Dean bit his lip, the frown between his brows deepening as he fought with himself if to reveal his needs or not.

"I just wish you'd stop," he said, voice so low Sam wasn't sure he'd heard.

Sam leaned forward some more, abandoning the support of the wall behind his back in favor of getting within merely an arm-length of brother.

"Stop what?" he asked carefully, even though he thought he knew.

"Just for tonight, Sam…it's not like we have an awful lot of time left, you know? I wish you and Dad could stop fighting, treat each other with the respect you both deserve,"

He still wasn't looking at Sam directly, and suddenly Sam was thankful for the space his brother gave him, because Dean's plea hit him like a punch in the guts.

_The respect they both deserved._

Usually, Sam would have raved at that, would have gone on about Dad not treating _him_ with respect, treating him like a soldier rather than a son, cutting him out of his mercy the second he dared to rebel, not following his orders blindly anymore. He would have said all that, wanted to say all that – because it still was true.

But – and that was just as true as his resentments were – Dean's appeal struck a chord, tickling that tiny piece of conscience in Sam's head that had always felt that, maybe, he didn't quite do his father justice, either. John Winchester wasn't a bad man, lived his life the way he did because of a reason. And maybe, just maybe, Sam wasn't the most…objective person when it came to their father as well.

Maybe it was that realization that hit Sam, or maybe it was the _rawness_ of his brother's plea for peace, but it did break something inside of him. After all, if he couldn't even grant his brother this tiny little wish…

Dean had never asked a lot of him.

And it was only one night – _one night_ and Sam would be gone again, back to the life he'd chosen. It _really_ wasn't too much to ask…

Sam didn't know where it came from, how it would dawn on him now of all times, but suddenly the impending farewell hit him with all its cruel force. He hadn't really thought about what it would do to him to actually have to leave Dean – again. As if the first time hadn't been hard enough.

His stomach curled into the tightest knot imaginable, almost bending him forward with force as it twisted his insides, settled like a anvil in the bottom of his belly. His mouth suddenly felt dry, his head light. As if this was a goodbye forever – which it wasn't - never would be.

Through slightly blurry eyes Sam saw that Dean was still looking at him, his brows furrowing gradually as he became aware of his little brother's distress, his right hand letting go of his left elbow, bracing the palm against the floor next to him as if he was about to push himself to his feet.

As if he needed to worry about Sam now…

"Dad brought dinner," Sam blurted out, not knowing how else to stop Dean from slipping into his role big brother again, trying to comfort Sam when he himself was hurting so fiercely.

Dean blinked at him in surprise at the change in subject, hand still flat on the ground, upper body leaning forward a little still. Still ready to come to his aid, even though he so clearly was the one needing all the help he could get.

Sam squirmed underneath his brother's gaze, hoping his diversion would work, hoping at the same time that Dean would recognize his effort for what it had been. Those familiar green eyes, albeit a little dulled by weeks of pain and exhaustion, looked at him steadily, looked into his very soul apparently, because after a few moments of close scrutiny the surprise vanished from Dean's gaze and his features softened, the tension in his body lessening.

"Dinner, huh?" he asked softly, never taking his eyes off Sam as he once again leaned back against the wooden support of the porch's banister, right hand curling laxly in his lap.

"Yeah, I think he actually…might have _cooked_ something," Sam offered around a shaky smile, trying to slip into one of his brother's most cherished habits of easing the tension with humor – deflecting. To Dean, Sam knew, it would be the best sign that Sam was indeed sorry, that he understood what Dean needed and was willing to jump over his own shadow here.

Sam watched as Dean's eyebrows bounced up at his statement.

"Dad cooked?" he asked, face a mixture of surprise and shock.

"Yeah, well…looks like. Don't really know, but I originally woke up to him swearing over some kind of pan he tried to fit into the oven…"

It wasn't quite true, considering that Sam had woken to John staring at him from the doorway to the den. But when they'd gone into the kitchen the place had been a mess of dirty pans and ripped open packages, the whole house smelling of burnt cheese and god knew what else.

"Oh god, that can't be good," Dean groaned, the look of terror on his face almost comical.

"Yeah, I know,"

"If that's him trying to make up for the hundreds of times he forgot to bring home something edible when running errands…" Dean started, letting the sentence trail off with an exaggerated shudder of breath.

"Well, he always brought us fruit-loops," Sam pointed out helpfully, felt the knot in his chest if not disappear then at least loosen at their light banter.

"True – and that one time in Philadelphia when he got us about four dozen cups of microwavable soup – only that we didn't have a microwave in the room we were staying in," Dean added with an upwards quirk of his lips.

Sam barked a laugh at the memory, vividly remembered Dean sweet-talking the lady from the gas-station next door to heat up the cups for them because at the age of ten or eleven he'd been too small to reach the microwave on the top counter. The woman had gotten kind of suspicious after the third day in a row when a clearly underage kid had come carrying four cups of soup, but Dean had spun her a tale of his daddy being in bed, sick like a dog, depending on his youngest to keep him alive. She had melted into a hopeless puddle at that one.

Dean had always had a way with the ladies…

For a moment or two they were both lost in the memory and Sam watched in fascination as Dean's face softened even further, his eyes loosing that terrible edge that had been there ever since Sam had followed him out onto the porch.

"So, you're up for…whatever he managed to cook up, then?" Sam asked. "I don't want to get you too excited, but I think it might be his infamous mac 'n cheese…" he added with a mock shudder of his own, watched Dean mirror his expression.

"I guess I could eat, though," Dean finally relented after a couple of seconds.

As if on cue, his stomach gave a low, gravelly rumble and Dean almost blushed guiltily as Sam's smile widened.

"Like there was ever a time when you couldn't eat," Sam teased gently, still mindful of the thin ice they were walking on.

Dean gave him a crooked smile in response, eyes still tired with pain and worry still hidden in those bright green depth. But at the same time a tiny mischievous glint sneaked its way into them, making him seem at least a tiny bit like his old self again.

"You say that now. But growing up you were the one eating like a damn vacuum, practically devouring everything even remotely edible within your reach. I had to learn to eat however much whenever I could in order to keep you from inhaling it right off my plate, dude."

Sam snorted a laugh, his shoulders rolling forward as, for the first time since coming here, he allowed his own defenses to lower.

"Yeah, but I managed to _actually_ grow up, Dean. Maybe you should have tried it, too…"

"Oh yeah, that's very original, Sammy. Just because you are a freaking giant doesn't mean I am the short one, though…" he wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and even though the sarcasm was heavily dampened by fatigue and the remnants of pain clinging to him like a shadow, it was the best thing Sam had seen all day – and for one hell of a long time before that.

Sam laughed – really laughed at his brother's comeback.

Leaned his head back and barked a sharp, out-loud laugh that vibrated through his chest and strained his cheeks as squeezed his eyes shut, enjoying the feeling of actually laughing because of his brother – with his brother. There had been good times too, Sam remembered all of a sudden, the years of hunting with his family not all bad. They'd had fun, him and Dean, and sometimes even John, too, even though shared laughter with their father had been scarce to the point where Sam thought them nonexistent later.

When finally the bubbling laughter died down in Sam's chest he lifted a hand to his face, ran his fingers over his eyes to get rid of the first actual tears of joy he'd felt in a long time. In the corner of his range of vision Sam saw Dean watching him, still smiling yet somehow sobered, composed all of a sudden.

Before Sam could get himself under control again, could clear his vision enough to be absolutely sure Dean wasn't laughing along with him, Dean's smile was firmly in place once more, not giving Sam a clue if he'd seen correctly or not.

"So, if you'll leave tomorrow, we can't let you leave on an empty stomach, I guess," Dean broke his silence, mouth still smiling while his eyes were once again carefully veiled, not letting too much to the surface, shielding him from prying eyes, maybe even from himself.

"No, I guess," Sam agreed, the knot in his chest tightening a little again, growing once more.

He'd missed seeing Dean smile, hearing him laugh. Simply seeing and hearing him, period. Dean's smile had always been infectious, his laugh a constant companion when Sam had grown up. One day and one night simply wasn't long enough to stock up on that smile, that laugh again…

"Ok, so – you better finish up what Dad made for us, then – every last forkful. See if we can get the rest of you to grow to match height, right?" Dean teased gently.

This time, Sam didn't laugh, but he manage to roll his eyes in mock exasperation.

Pulling himself to his feet Sam used the second or two that he had his face averted from his brother's view to take a breath, to rid his features from the expression that twisted his facial muscles into a mask of pain. He couldn't let Dean see… Viciously he scrubbed a hand over his face, reaching out to pull open the screen-door when suddenly a voice at his back had him turn around again.

"Uhm, you know…I could probably use a little help here…"

Dean still sat on the ground, good arm outstretched and while Sam was sure that it ate at his brother, having to not only accept help but actually having to ask for it, Dean met Sam's gaze squarely. And maybe, in his own, twisted way, with this simply gesture Dean told Sam that he accepted his help, needed it. It was Dean's way of showing that, even though he didn't like it one tiny bit, he forgave Sam for having to leave again – at least for the moment.

Sam couldn't help but wonder how long that sentiment would hold true.

OoOoOoO

_AN:_

_So, here I was, not being nervous about this chapter all week - until today. Once I did the final check, I once again went crazy with nerves. I wonder if that will ever change at all, or if I'm just not cut out for this..._

_I want to thank all those taking the time to read this, all those that leave a review to help and settle my nerves somewhat every week. Also, thanks to those who review anonymously, since I don't get to answer back to them in person, and another thanks to those favoriting this story - or even me as an author. It never fails to amaze the hell out of me. _

_The next chapter is pretty much done - as done as I will ever be, that is. So, if you liked this chapter - and you're up for the next one I might just actually post it ;-)_

_Thanks for giving me some of your time - and please remember that reviews are like candy...and since I didn't have real candy all week, I could do with a little 'unreal' one. I heard it's a lot better for the figure as well ;-)_

_hope to see you soon. take care!_


	27. Chapter 27

_Thank you so, so much for your patience and your unwavering support. I hope this chapter can justify the trust you guys still seem to have in me and this story!_

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

**Chapter 27**

They stayed awake almost all night.

It reminded John a lot of those couple of times when his boys had still been little, claiming that they could make it through the night without falling asleep, refusing to go to bed when John told them to.

Back then it always used to be Sam who sacked out first, him being younger, of course, not as used as Dean to spending hours awake during the night, tending to his younger brother or waiting up for their absent father. So, while Sam would always drop off first, usually barely seconds after declaring that he really wasn't tired - _at all _- Dean usually followed close behind. It was as if his eldest just waited for his younger brother to fall asleep before allowing his own body the reprieve.

This time around, though, it was more than apparent who initiated the almost all-nighter – and who was the one who suffered most from it.

They were talking, endlessly, relentlessly – quietly.

But once again, as he so often was when it came to his boys, John was forced to the sidelines. One whole night John was left to stand back and watch them do nothing much really besides talk and sit in laden silence and then talk some more. Even when they were silent – Sam tending to Dean's wounds, helping him to the bathroom or simply sitting there next to him for a while John knew that there were words between his sons that he would never catch, would never understand, no matter how hard he tried.

John always had been a little jealous of the bond they shared. He'd never had a brother, and the few good friends he'd made over the years had disappeared once Mary had died – once John had shut himself off so good nobody ever had a chance to get close to him anymore. His boys had been the only confidants he'd had since then but somehow he'd managed to screw up even that seemingly unshakable trust – the trust boys had in their father, no matter what. But John Winchester, of course, would manage even that, couldn't hold on to the one good thing that lay right before his freaking eyes…

Sam and John hadn't really spoken since Dean had broken up their argument before dinner – apart from the bare necessities, but at lest they hadn't fought, either. John knew that Sam held back only because of his brother, that he wouldn't grant John the reprieve if it wasn't for Dean's benefit. He probably didn't deserve his son's forgiveness, as much as he hoped for it, and still he prayed that he would find a way to make it all better, to make amends, maybe.

He fervently wished for a way to have Sam look at him the same way he looked at his big brother. And he wished for Dean to look at him the same way he looked at Sam...not with that blind faith and unshakable obedience that his eldest portrayed when looking at his father, even though even that had changed considerably over the course of the past months. But there was something…much deeper, much more honest when Dean laid eyes on his brother.

It was a kind of pure love and devotion that John could do nothing to deserve, he knew, not after everything he'd put his boys through ever since they'd lost their mom – and maybe part of their father, too.

John wanted to tell his sons that he was sorry, wanted to tell them everything he had always felt but never been able to express.

But, as so often before, John didn't find the words to say what he really wanted to say, what he was screaming inside his head ever since he'd laid eyes on his youngest that morning – or so many times before that. He simply didn't know what to say, how to say it to really make it all better. Had no idea if there even were words that would accomplish that.

During dinner the boys started weak attempts at lightening the burden that lay on their shoulders, talking lightly, teasing each other carefully. Trying to make up a shadow of a pretense of _before_ - back when family dinners, as sparse as they'd ever been, hadn't been a tense affair. Back when eating dinner hadn't been accompanied by laden silence, John and Sam glaring at each other, Dean the living, breathing human shield between them, the only reason they were able to sit at the same table in the first place.

But they were trying. Laughter, maybe, would have been too much to ask for, would have been too soon – too…_dishonest_ after all that had happened. It wouldn't have been as real as this – peaceful but composed.

The conversations were light, carefully avoiding topics that would get either of them into trouble. There was no talk about hunting, of course – or school, because that would have been…awkward, right? Because that would be lighting a fuse that best stayed cold, that could blow up the pretense of peace they worked so hard to establish.

The boys were trying hard, which John was more grateful for than he would ever be able to let them see.

But John was trying too.

The mac 'n cheese were his way of showing his boys that he was trying, he really was. But it wasn't as easy to shed one's skin as it looked, especially wasn't easy since John had buried himself inside himself for such a long time now – had dug himself in so deep - he hardly knew which way was up and which way was down anymore.

The food was far from perfect, was burnt at the edges and way too soft and a little cold in the middle, but they all survived it. No stomach cramps or extended toilet-visits either, so it was better than some of his earlier forays into the world of cooking. And while neither of his sons commented on it, maybe that was exactly what showed John that they did appreciate his effort for what it had been - a very small, very insignificant but heartfelt attempt to make amends.

While the atmosphere during their last evening together was mostly relaxed it once again darkened over the course of the night. Slowly, Dean started to withdraw more and more back inside himself, working on closing himself off again. John knew his eldest was hurting indefinitely, was troubled by Sam's impending departure all night. The closer the time came, the quieter he became, trying to persuade himself that it didn't matter, that the time spent together hadn't been too brief, hadn't maybe managed to open up old wounds rather than heal them.

John knew the feeling, sympathized with all his heart. And still it hurt so much – almost more than the fierce ache of loss inside his own chest - to watch the change in Dean's behavior.

Sometime during the very early morning hours, they finally fell asleep.

John woke up at first light after what felt like barely a couple minutes of light slumber but had in reality been a little more than two hours.

He'd retreated back into the den since his boys had both fallen asleep in the living room to give them a little bit of much needed privacy.

But he'd left the door open and at the first sounds of Sam stirring outside he was awake as well, laying in bed for a long time, just listening to his youngest preparing to leave. For the longest time John contemplated staying where he was, feigning sleep to avoid the farewell, but he knew he wouldn't be able to pull it off, no matter how much he wanted to turn and look the other way. As much as it hurt to lose Sam again – he couldn't just pretend that it didn't happen, that things would return to the way the way they were before just because he wanted them to. There was no way he could sleep through this and find Dean alone again in the house when he finally had the guts to face reality again…

With a sigh that sounded almost like sob John pushed himself up and to his feet and, crossing the threshold into the living area of their small bungalow on silent feet and made his way into the kitchen.

He didn't know what he was looking for, what he was hoping to find, which was why he was even more surprised to see the pot of coffee waiting in the ancient machine he'd managed to hook up, two empty mugs sitting on the counter next to it.

Sam had made coffee.

He'd always been the early riser, often being the one preparing coffee for his brother and father. He wasn't good at preparing breakfast, John remembered – that had been Dean's department mostly. That boy could cook up some wicked bacon and eggs…

But the sight of the full can of coffee on the counter was almost too much now, a painful reminder of what John had lost – was about to loose again way too soon.

With shaking hands John moved to pour himself a cup, using the action to center himself, to divert his mind from the goodbye that lay ahead, the devastation he would have to face after. He almost jumped in surprise when he turned around to find Sam standing just a couple of feet in front of him, appraising him silently.

"I made coffee," Sam stated, as if it wasn't obvious from the way John held a steaming cup of the beverage in his hands.

"Yeah," John replied simply, shifting his cup from one hand to the other.

Trying to find a safe ground to tread on didn't come easy to neither John nor Sam, unfortunately. It always used to be Dean who managed to fill the silence with words of no particular weight, managing to lighten up any tension with just a word, a sentence – a raise of his eyebrows or a quirk of his lips. But Dean wasn't here now.

Sam looked at John's hands for a moment and when John followed his gaze he saw his youngest' eyes glued to his left hand, to the wedding ring he wore on his finger as a reminder to why he was doing what he was doing – a warning to remind him what happened when he allowed his guard to lower, his attention to stray.

Sam's close inspection made John nervous, inexplicably, and he shifted his free hand to cover the fingers of his left one, hiding the ring from his son's view. Immediately, Sam's head snapped up, eyes locking with his father's for a mere second before he let his gaze drop again.

For the longest time neither of them said a word, Sam staring intently at his feet, hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans. He looked just like the teenager he'd once been, the petulant, brooding one – but the one John had still had under control. Once Sam lifted his eyes up again, though, that impression was gone and Sam was the grown up again, the man John hardly even knew anymore, no matter how much he tried to understand.

"So," Sam started, trailing off and biting his lip, eyes nervously flicking back towards where Dean lay sleeping on the living room sofa, still oblivious to the world.

"So," John repeated, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded, how insecure.

It could be lack of sleep, of course, and he would stick to that, no matter who would dare to confront him about it. Not Sam seemed to realize – or care. As empathetic as he could be, he always used to be surprisingly insensitive when it came to analyzing his father's feelings.

"I have to get going," Sam started, sounding like he wanted to say more but cutting himself off at the last second.

"Yeah," John said, resisting the urge to fidget, to shift the cup in his hands for the one-hundredth-time.

God, could this get any more awkward?

"You take care of yourself," John finally pressed out, and he was pretty damn aware of how stupid that sounded, how shallow.

"You too," Sam whispered, his chin down, eyes unreadable.

John's fingers itched around the coffee-cup, pad of his thumb rubbing at the washed out porcelain until he was sure he would be rubbing off the already faded Starbucks logo adorning the front.

"You take care of him, Dad, you gotta promise me that – you have to…you owe him that," Sam suddenly blurted out, and John couldn't help but flinch a little in surprise.

He had no idea what to reply to that, knew no matter what he said, it would come out wrong at this point. So he clamped his mouth shut and nodded once, curtly, hoping with all his heart that Sam understood his silence for what it really was.

Sam's lips pressed into a line so thin they became practically invisible as he nodded as if to himself, raising his eyes one last time to meet John's while taking a step backwards, then another, before finally turning around and walking away.

John felt his shoulders slump as Sam turned his back toward him, his muscles suddenly lax and almost shaking.

He watched Sam walk into the living area again, watched as he stopped in front of the sofa, already dressed and ready, his packed duffel waiting on the small stool next to the front-door.

Dean seemed to have slept through the commotion of his brother's preparations as well as his brother's and father's awkward goodbyes. He probably was passed out from pain and exhaustion, his back propped up against some pillows, casted leg elevated, an empty can of beer on the floor next to him. John smirked as he remembered the doctors' clear instructions to not give Dean any alcohol with his medication, his mind going over all the things that could go wrong if you mixed the pretty strong drugs with alcohol.

Dean's left arm was wrapped around his mid-section in a mute gesture of protection, his right arm sprawled across his eyes, hiding his face from the world in the crook of his elbow.

But what John saw when he looked at his son was the calluses adorning his son's palm, in the pad of his fingers which curled laxly inwards in his sleep. There he saw the witnesses of a life so much harder than he'd ever wanted for his son – for both his sons.

Those were the hands of a warrior, even though some of those calluses were probably sired by walking on crutches for weeks on end now – from running through a damn forest on a broken leg to save his own father.

"Dean,"

John watched as Sam shook his brother's shoulder gently, watched bleary green eyes blink open languidly before they managed to focus, the rawness and pain reflecting in them almost too much for John right then and there. The moment they latched onto Sam, they to shed about a ton of worry, gaining so much hope, it nearly broke John's heart. It only took a second, though, because deep down Dean knew, had only forgotten when waking up, it seemed. Within moments, his eyes changed again, the pain seeping back in before they were almost blank once more.

"It's time," Sam whispered, and John had to turn around, then, had to look away, trying to pretend that his heart wasn't breaking – for both his son's as well as for himself. Trying to pretend that he didn't want to go over there and lay his arms around both his boys, hold them close, never let them go again.

But in the end he did nothing, of course. John Winchester apparently wasn't capable of acting out what his heart told him to. So he kept his back turned towards his sons, pretending that he didn't hear the mumbled conversation, the painful grunts and puffs of breath as Dean dragged himself to his feet. He didn't turn to witness their goodbye.

This wasn't his moment.

He'd missed his goddamn chance years ago.

OoOoOoO

They walked outside to the car Sam had borrowed just as the sun crested the treetops of the forest across the street.

Dean couldn't help the surprised bounce of his eyebrows as he spotted the shiny-new silver vehicle waiting at bottom of the driveway.

"A Tahoe, Sammy?" he teased, balancing his weight between the two crutches he'd chosen to use, internally cursing his throbbing shoulder, even though it had become slightly more bearable to walk like this – at least for some very short periods of time.

"Well, it belongs to my neighbor's mom," Sam smirked, opening the back door and throwing his duffel in before throwing it shut again. Dean couldn't help but notice how the door didn't give as much as the tiniest creak as it swung shut. A car with no personality, clearly…

"I was glad he even gave it to me – he's usually very picky about who get's to drive it," Sam went on as he turned back towards Dean, eyeing him from underneath carefully lowered lids.

Dean contemplated that for a second.

"You always looked more trustworthy than you really were," he finally conceded. "And, you know, at least it's a Chevy,"

"Yeah, that's what I thought too," Sam admitted, sliding a careful, sideways glance towards him that he probably thought Dean didn't notice. Which was a hopeless wish. Dean always knew when his brother's eyes were on him, had been hyper-aware of the responsibility of being looked up to ever since he'd been trusted with his little brother's well-being.

When Dean turned his head, Sam quickly tipped the corners of his mouth into a smile – albeit a one-sided one. But it was the effort that counted, and Dean appreciated it with a quick, likewise upturning of his own lips.

But the smile on his face faltered too quickly, became strained - an effort to keep in place.

Dean could see the same struggle in his little brother's features.

They were getting closer and closer and suddenly Dean just wanted it to be over. Say goodbye to his brother while he could still do it without crumbling right in front of him. He wanted to see Sam off so Dean could return to the life he knew, the life he wanted. The life he'd _chosen._ He had no space for regrets. He couldn't _afford_ regrets.

He wanted Sam to turn around and leave again – now - because that was the only possible outcome anyways, what it would come down to, no matter how he looked at it, no matter how long they'd manage to postpone it. The anticipation of that imminent farewell was too much – almost like the famous ripping off a band aid. The longer one waited, the harder it got. The more it hurt.

And Dean was tired.

Physically and mentally spent.

He was tired of pretending, tired of playing make-belief. Tired of wishing away a goodbye that was inevitable. It sapped away his last reserves, made him more fragile, more likely to break when the time finally came.

He just couldn't do this any longer. He wanted to return to the life only life he'd ever known, had embraced with all his heart and fought so hard to maintain. He couldn't afford to start questioning his intentions now of all times.

But just then, of course, when Dean was about to break up the situation that weighed so heavily on his mind he remembered exactly why he couldn't just turn around and leave – never had been able to turn his back on his little brother, no matter what. Because as much as he needed Sam to leave to make it easier – to be able to breathe again – he needed Sam to stay. Needed him to stay _to_ make it easier, so he _would_ be able to breathe at all.

Damn, vicious circle.

He wanted nothing more than for Sam to drag his bag out of the car again, toss away the keys and say that he was going to stay, was done denying his own family, the way he'd been brought up.

But Dean knew that it wasn't going to happen.

This…it wouldn't make Sam happy – Dean knew that. He'd always known what the kid needed, had been conditioned to know his little brother's every need before Sam himself had been aware of them. Dean had known that Sam wanted to leave long before Sam had ever even formed that thought in his own mind, let alone voice it – or scream it into their father's face.

"Dean…"

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes taking a moment to focus onto Sam's face even though he'd apparently been staring right at him all this time.

"Yeah," Dean answered automatically before he even had his vision completely under control again, having to tighten his grip on the crutches as the sudden pull back into reality had him sway slightly on his feet. A fiery stab of pain in his shoulder accompanied the motion, but Dean was able to keep his face devoid of any sign of pain, the grunt that threatened to rise in his throat to stay down.

"Are you…" Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking,"

Dean half expected a snarky come-back to that, but Sam remained oblivious to the opportunity. Which could only mean that he had his mind pinned onto something else…something bigger. Sure enough it didn't take more than a couple of seconds until Sam apparently abandoned his inquisition of Dean's condition for the moment, refocused on something else.

"You could come with me, Dean. Back to my place. We've got a guest room made up with a spare bed – it would be…you could stay for as long as you liked…" Sam offered almost meekly, hopefully, and Dean knew he really meant it, didn't just say it to silence his conscience.

He wanted to offer Dean a way out, give him a taste of his _normal_, not seeing that it wasn't the normal Dean craved. What Sam didn't seem to realize was, that with Dean there at Palo Alto, Sam's normal would be turned upside down so goddamn fast…

And Dean couldn't help the little, albeit slightly painful smile that pulled up the corner of his mouth at the word 'we' in Sam's sentence. He knew that 'we' wasn't Sammy and his roommate – at least not the male roommate Sam had been bunking with until just about 4 or 5 months ago. They'd definitely not had a spare bedroom in that cheap little dump they'd been staying at.

So, Sammy had found himself a girl, then? Or another roomy, maybe, but Dean's money was on the female companion-type. Sam wouldn't have moved out on his friend if it hadn't been real important. Maybe that pretty long-legged blonde Dean had seen Sam date back when he'd last paid a safety-visit to Stanford? Even though she'd apparently been so far out of his little brother's league…

"Dean, are you even listening?"

Dean snapped his head up just in time to catch Sam's worry-crease deepening to seemingly impossible depths. This was the Sam Dean had missed, the compassionate one – the brother Dean had chosen to protect a long, long time ago. With that look, Dean almost crumbled.

Almost…

"Yeah I'm listening. And you know my answer to that proposition, Sammy."

"Well, you could try a new approach this time, why don't you? Just look at yourself and tell me that this is still so much better, is where you _really_ want to be…"

There it was again – that challenge in Sam's voice. So damn cute when the kid had been 4 or 6 or 8 – but not so cute coming out of a 20-year-old's mouth.

"This is where I belong, Sam – where I need to be. You know that I can't just up and leave,"

"You can't, or you won't?" Sam said a little too quickly, a little too harshly.

Dean shrugged.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"You can't be serious…" Sam challenged, exasperation evident in his voice, his wide eyes.

Dean shrugged again, instantly regretting the motion as this time pain flared up in his shoulder, tiny rivulets of heat clawing their way down his arm and right into the tips of his fingers, which involuntarily curled inwards, pins and needles chasing themselves all through the limb.

Sam noticed – and the way his eyes hardened, looking at Dean with his trademark _'see – what the fuck?'_ look, Dean had a hard time not snapping at his little brother. But he didn't. A part of him still remembered that day so many months back that had torn the deepest chasm imaginable between his father and brother. An abyss so deep, Dean seriously had trouble believing that they would ever be able to bridge that gap again. And he didn't want that for himself and Sam. He couldn't let that happen.

"Listen, Sam…you made your choices, and I never held you back, right? I never gave you hell for it, just let you do what you think was best for you. Doesn't mean I liked it, you know, but I let you handle it because you're old and maybe even smart enough to make your own decisions,"

Sam's face softened – a guilty flush spreading over his cheeks and he dropped his eyes for a moment, chin stuck out to remain at least a tiny part of his stubborn pose.

When Sam didn't reply, Dean went on.

"Only thing I'm asking in return is for you to treat me the same way, give me some credit here. I mean, I can make my own decisions too, right? I'm not the mindless idiot you and Dad seem to believe I am. I'm damn well capable of knowing how far I can go…"

Sam's head shot up, guilt gone again, replaced by anger and reproach.

"Oh yeah? How far you can take this? Look at you, Dean…have you taken a good enough look at yourself lately? You're beat to hell, have more holes in your body than a goddamn fakir. You are so far from alright, every stranger on the street could see it. And still you insist that you are fine, that this," he made a sweeping gesture with his hand indicating the whole situation in general "is what you want…"

"Because it is," Dean tried to break into his brother's rambling, but Sam had always been best at barging forward and he continued undeterred.

"Like hell it is. This is…this can't be…" Sam's eyes roamed over Dean's body, down his leg and back up and towards his shredded shoulder, roaming the bruises on Dean's neck and face.

All the signs that he wasn't alright – far from it. Dean barely held himself back from shifting nervously underneath his brother's gaze.

"This _can't_ be what you want. This can't be what you want for yourself, Dean. Don't you see what's happening?" Sam finally asked, softly.

"What…what's happening, Sam?" Dean asked tiredly, letting go of his crutch and digging the knuckles of his right hand into his eye-sockets in a gesture of defeat. He knew full well where this was going.

Truth was, he knew what was happening, and he had no idea if he really, deep down wanted for it to happen. Had no idea what he wanted besides to lie down, take some of those sweet and strong painkillers and not think about what happened or what was going to happen for a while to come. But it was an unreasonable wish, he knew that as well as anybody.

"You are turning into _him_."

"And with him you mean…"

"Dad, of course. You're turning into dad. Only that you are not fuelled by your need for revenge but by someone else's need for revenge, and that makes it even sadder,"

"Sam," Dean started, but he was easily cut off by Sam's voice, still low and composed but imploring enough nonetheless.

"You can barely walk, Dean, can barely lift your goddamn arm, and still you insist that you're alright, that you're going on because this is what _you_ really want. But Dean, it's not. It's not…it's what dad wants, and it's what he made you believe you want to." Sam stayed surprisingly calm, Dean realized, sounded more exasperated as if he truly believed he could make Dean seriously consider going with him, turning his back on Dad.

"Sam, come on,"

"You do it out of some false sense of loyalty…to Dad and to Mom,"

And there Sam had the decency to at least stop for a second, had the decency to not desecrate her name and all that she was…for just one second.

"She wouldn't have wanted that for us, Dean. I didn't know her – and I'm more sorry about that than you'll ever know, but I know for sure that she wouldn't have wanted this for us…for you. She wouldn't have wanted you hurt and…"

"Sam, stop. You _don't_ want to go there," Dean breathed, halting Sam's antics in mid-sentence.

Maybe it was the quiet urgency in Dean's voice, or maybe it was just that he probably knew that he was taking it too far. But whatever it was, Sam at last cut off his rant, took a deep breath that seemed to shutter in his chest, seemed to barely reach his heaving lungs.

"Dad's going to leave again, you know that, right? He's going to walk out on you…" Sam said, his voice low and sad and…resigned.

Dean couldn't decide if Sam really thought that having this argument – again – would change anything, would have him change his mind and pack his stuff, moving to California to life as a mechanic or sell burgers behind a fast-food counter.

The thought was so ridiculous, Dean bounced his eyebrow once as he tightened the grip in his crutches, taking one unsteady step back and away from the car.

"He'll come back again." He said with fake conviction, trying real hard to appear as if he actually, truly believed what he was saying. That it wasn't exactly what he was afraid of, first and foremost, wasn't something that gave him sleepless nights more often than he cared to admit. That, one day, dad wasn't going to come back from one of his solo-hunts, that the next time Dean got hurt, Sam wouldn't sense his brother's distress and come rushing to his side.

That Dean would end up alone.

Dean curled the corner of his lips up into a crooked smile to persuade himself that his fears were completely and utterly unfounded, even though the motion felt more than a little strained.

"Nobody can stay away from me for long, Sammy. It's like a curse or something. Many have tried but failed…"

Sam sighed, a frustrated pout pulling his lips downwards, but he nodded.

"Yeah, sure,"

And that was that.

The sudden silence felt as if it sucked the air from Dean's lungs, made his chest draw tighter and tighter within the course of seconds only.

Dean wanted to hug Sam – a quick, manly hug complete with a pat on the shoulder and a guttural grunt of goodbye. But his crutches and his shoulder in general made that impossible. And then there was the thought that, maybe, Dean wouldn't be able to just let go again if he did hug his brother, so maybe it was for the best really.

Sam reached out a hand, fingers hovering over Dean's bad shoulder for a second before he let it drop again, clamping it to a fist at his side. They nodded at each other, wordlessly – tensely - before Sam tore himself away all too suddenly and rounded the car, his steps too stiff, too clipped to appear unaffected. He only stopped at the driver's door, propping one arm onto the hood of the Tahoe but keeping his head down, his drawn brows casting his eyes into darkness.

If his fist wasn't clenched around the set of keys like a vice, his posture might have almost looked relaxed.

"We'll stay in touch," he said, false conviction making the statement sound almost like a question, that childish innocence and hope mixing with the knowledge that, maybe, wishes didn't always come true, no matter how much one wished for it. It was that look that made Dean ache for his brother, wondering when exactly Sammy had lost his innocence, had stopped believing that, no matter what, his big brother would manage to make everything alright again.

Where and when had he failed his little brother so completely?

"Yeah, sure we will," Dean replied, softening his voice to the point where he wasn't even sure Sam heard.

After another moment of intently staring at him with that pained set of his jaw and the worry-crease parting his brows, Sam finally nodded, his jaw twisting and hardening, before he opened the driver's door with an almost forceful yank on the handle and slipped inside.

Dean didn't wait to watch him drive away, couldn't bear to see him disappear again.

So he turned around and slowly limped back toward the house, setting his own, painfully new pace. Halfway up the driveway he caught sight of his father, waiting for him at the top of the stairs. His face appeared to be a stoic mask of composure, but Dean could clearly make out the emotions boiling right underneath the surface, no matter how hard his father tried to conceal them.

Once again, Dean stood between them, he realized, and once again he had his back turned toward his brother, his focus on his father and the fight that ruled his life ever since the fire had taken away his freedom of choice all those years ago.

Walking towards his father felt natural to Dean, a familiar pull that almost made him feel like he did the right thing in letting his brother go now. But at the same time the emptiness beside him, the lack of that other part, that other focus that had kept him going on all this time made Dean realize that, without his brother, a big part of his fight had become meaningless, almost.

He heard the Tahoe's motor hum to life, then the crunching of gravel underneath it's broad new tires as the car pulled out of the driveway and onto the smooth asphalt of the road.

Dean shut his eyes but kept going, trying to ignore the sound of his own heartbeat reverberating through his head, the almost unbearable squeeze that constricted his chest to the point where he thought he was going to fall over from lack of oxygen. But he kept moving, kept moving even as the sound of the motor became fainter and fainter before it disappeared into the distance altogether.

Dean started to feel lightheaded as he kept walking, kept hauling his body forward with his eyes on the ground in front of him, all his energy focused on saying upright, on breathing, on moving.

He stumbled just before he reached the bottom of the stairs that led up towards the narrow porch, sucked in a breath as he realized that, at least he was not going to go down in front of his brother. But before he could fall a strong hand slid across his back, another one gripping his elbow, taking a little bit of that weight off him.

He raised his head, bleary eyes moistened by exhaustion but catching sight of his father standing next to him, steadying him.

Together they made it up the stairs and into the house.

Sam was gone, but Dad was still there with him, wasn't walking out just yet. Every day he stayed would make Dean stronger again, would help him reclaim another tiny bit of his old independence, his strength.

And if he just kept telling himself over and over again that this was _right_ where he wanted to be, he would maybe even start believing it, one day.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_So...I know I missed last week's post, but my internet was out cold - dying a miserably death. and since I was leaving the country for the weekend anyways I decided that I wouldn't pressure myself (as I have a history of doing) and just enjoy what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend, visiting a horse-show in the small town my mother grew up in. Since I instantly was recruited to help a 73 year old farmer that participated in the show with four of his horses, the weekend wasn't as relaxing as I wanted it to be, but it was all the more fulfilling (except for the near heat-stroke, because it was so freaking hot... -))_

_Anyways, once I returned, and my internet still wasn't working, I blackmailed my brother in law (with threats of not babysitting my two lovely nieces anymore...which, of course I wouldn't really have pulled off...) and not so surprisingly, he got my internet to work again yesterday night. just in time._

_thank you all so, so much for staying with me through all this, and thank you thank you thank you for your wonderful reviews and encouraging words. _

_i really, really hope you didn't think this latest chapter finally spoiled it all for you. if you liked it, and you find a minute of spare time, I would be indefinitely thankful if you would drop me a short note. Just remember that your reviews keep me going!_

_You guys are the best!_

_till next chapter - take care_


	28. Chapter 28

_Yeah, I'm back. No excuses, other than a writer's block that had me securely in its grip, it seems._

_This is almost the end of this story. I hope you find the time to read and will forgive me for letting you wait a week longer than I promised!_

**Crows in the wheatfield**

**Chapter 28**

"Where have you been?"

Dean tried his hardest not to flinch when, as he stepped into the dusky darkness of the house, he was greeted by his father's voice from the other end of the room.

He stopped briefly at the door, one hand on the knob, fighting down the urge to snap at his father for startling him the way he had, aware of how wrong it was that he should be surprised by John's presence in the house, shouldn't have expected it in the first place. It wasn't like there was anyone else but _them _anymore. And Dean really, really shouldn't scare this easily, let anything sneak up on him unexpectedly.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, as he so often did these days, pouring over some books and articles, his journal lying open next to him, the laptop too, with a wild swirl of color-changing tubes chasing themselves over the otherwise dark screen. For some reason Dean couldn't quite fathom John seemed to find it strangely fascinating to stare at the rushing patterns of color when lost in thought, waiting for the abstract angles and shapes to form only to be extinguished again a minute later before building anew.

Dad had brought home the computer last week, announcing that it was time they get their own one now, finally. Sam had taken their laptop – their joint laptop that had always really been Sam's to begin with – when he'd left for college the first time around. Since both the older Winchesters hadn't ever been too comfortable around computers to begin with, they hadn't thought to replace the lost resource until now. Now that they were stuck pretty much in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing but sitting on their asses all day long, without much access to a well-kept library or newspapers or even the informative gossip of the town's people.

Which, no matter how you looked at it, was Dean's fault.

If he hadn't gotten hurt, wasn't slowing them down, they'd long starting moving again, leaving this house and all the memories that had gathered in its dusty corners. Leaving behind the memory of a messed up hunt and pain tearing them all apart and the reunion with a lost brother and son as well as his too soon departure. The house, it seemed, was a constant reminder of their failure to be a family – to become a family once again. If Dean had ever liked it here, felt comfortable in the run down yet homely structure, all of that was gone now, somehow.

If it wasn't for Dad, the last tiny bit of _home_ that he felt when coming back inside would have been long gone, seeped through the cracked floorboards and blown out the leaky windows.

"Dean, where have you been?"

Dean's head shot up, eyes meeting his father's. John had been pouring over his books again but he'd stopped working and turned around on his chair, facing Dean and watching him with an intensity that had Dean straightening his shoulders instinctively, broadening his chest and tightening his stance. As if he would be able to fool his father, at all, with false displays of strength and bravery.

Biting back the slightly defensive tone that he felt burning at the base of his throat, Dean replied quietly: "Been out, taking a walk."

John looked at him with those intent, dark eyes, his jaw seemingly relaxed and his eyes relaying just enough true worry to let Dean forget about the most definite note of impatience that tightened his face around the edges, showing clearly what he thought of his son's evasiveness.

So, they both were on edge a bit these days. Turned out that playing house, settling down, not actively hunting – it was wearing them both kinda thin in the long run.

They'd done pretty good – considering - for the first two weeks after Sam had left again, had been as harmonious as they'd been…too long ago for Dean to remember. But with Dean getting better – physically speaking – the old need to get moving, to _keep_ moving once again became more and more overwhelming.

"Where's your crutch?" John asked, the warm timbre of his voice softening even further as his eyes roamed Dean's body unabashedly, settling on his left leg as if he was able to see the condition of the injured limb through the fabric of Dean's pants.

"Left it here," Dean replied quietly as he let the door swing shut behind his back and slowly, carefully limping his way into the living room, trying his hardest to not let his father see how much the little expedition had actually worn him down. "I'm doing fine without it, can probably start running a couple of laps again next week,"

He didn't care to look at his father as he said it, knowing what he would see, knowing that he couldn't fool his Dad when he couldn't even fool himself. He was so far from running laps, was far from even walking any farther than a couple hundred steps without having to sit down again. But with them it had always been about keeping up the pretense, no matter how ridiculous it might appear from the outside.

It was the Winchester way – patented and proven, and Dean would be damned if he broke the tradition of playing tough in front of the other now. They both needed this – the front they kept up for each other's benefit, holding on to old habits they had established over the years. It gave them both something to hold on to, when everything else around them seemed to slowly fall apart.

"You already did your PT this morning, Dean," John said softly.

"Yeah, so what?"

Dean could feel his father's eyes on him like laser points as he eased himself down onto the sofa with as little sound as possible. His belly and side gave a tweak of discomfort at the motion, muscles pulling taunt and quivering underneath healing skin. A series of rapid-fire sparks of pain travelled through his lower stomach only to fade into something akin to a muscle ache, as if he'd been doing a couple of sit-ups too many the day before. But the muscles held, supported his movements, if not in their old way then at least sufficiently enough to not have him crumble down right there in the middle of the room.

He was doing better – so much better. Might be weeks still until he was absolutely pain-free and running without a limp that gave him away, but that had never stopped Dean before. Not long now and he'd be his old self again, ready to step up to his father's side again so they could join in the fight against evil once more.

John sighed, turned a little more in his seat. The chair gave a small, squealing sound as John's weight made them chair's legs shift over the plastic linoleum covering the ancient boards in the kitchen area so he could better face his son.

Trying to remain outwardly unfazed by his father's close scrutiny, Dean stretched his bad leg out in front of him, one hand resting lightly against his hip to be able to grab the limb more forcefully should it start cramping again, as it had a history of doing, lately. Maybe he did treat it a little too harshly, lately, pushing himself too hard, challenge the leg – and himself - too much. Most days he would end up falling into bed being in more pain than he'd been in the morning, the limb swollen and aching from toe to hip.

So he _was_ getting a little impatient with the whole healing process that took the better part of two freaking months now… Could anybody blame him for that?

He wasn't used to this constant weakness, wasn't used to his body not bouncing right back again after being tossed around and beaten by some freaking ghost or poltergeist – after getting ripped to shreds by a black dog and a skinwalking werewolf – or a werewolfing skinwalker. He wasn't used to not being in control. His whole life had been about being the one in control, revolving around this one simple fact.

Be in control of yourself and you survive.

"You remember what the doc told you about overdoing it with the PT – about fluid built up around the fracture-site and all that, about infection settling in again if you're not careful,"

"Yeah I remember," Dean snapped, feeling his own patience wearing thin with his father's continuous admonitions, feeling as if his Dad was the biggest hypocrite, saying one thing while clearly meaning another. "You don't have to remind me…I've been there when he gave me the lecture, remember?" he pointed out more softly after a while, trying to flatten the waves he'd managed to stir up with his heated comeback.

It wasn't like his father to accept weakness – body or mind – and it was slightly disconcerting how he tried to hold Dean back lately, slowing him down in his almost desperate attempts to find back to his old stamina. As if he wanted to hold Dean back on purpose… Dean just didn't know what to make of it, if to feel comforted by the thought that his father wasn't, for once in his life, pushing him to be faster, stronger, better, or to be worried about the fact that he wasn't doing just that. On the contrary.

Something had to be off if his father wanted to give him time…

"Well, it doesn't look like you're taking it easy, Dean. You're up on that leg for hours at a time, and if you think I can't see that it's still bothering you…that you're using up all the damn ice-ships every single night…"

"It's not bothering me. It just…takes forever already. Maybe you're not seeing this for what it is, might look worse than it is from where you're standing, but I got this perfectly under control," Dean challenged, holding his father's eye as John apparently decided if and how to call Dean's bluff.

Dean had made it a habit to muster his father very closely, lately, watching carefully for any sign of restlessness – any signs that he would get impatient. That he was close to packing his bags and leaving again. So far all Dean had found in the countenance of his father, though, was the usual level of restless energy that surrounded John for as long as Dean could remember. Ever since Mom…Dad had never really settled down again afterwards.

As a matter of fact, John was more settled than Dean remembered him being for a long, long time. The forced rest – maybe it did them good, after all. In a way. Dad was researching a lot, not really telling Dean what he was looking into so thoroughly, but he wasn't as secretive as he'd been in the weeks prior to Dean's injury, either. He didn't have that nervous air of secrecy around him, even though it was still clear as hell that he was keeping something from his son. Maybe he was finally deciding to let Dean in on that big hunt he was lining up, was working toward.

Dean had a weirdly unsettling and exciting notion as to what hunt exactly it might turn out to be…

"You didn't take your phone with you,"

Dean's thoughts stuttered and tumbled over each other, disappearing like bubbles hitting the thorns of a rose.

The phone.

For the past hour he'd successfully been able to block out the thought of his damn phone.

"Yeah, well…figured I wouldn't go far,"

His eyes skittered away from his father's and automatically moving towards the kitchen counter where he remembered to have left the mobile when going out.

He hadn't exactly forgotten…

But the phone wasn't there anymore and Dean furrowed his brows in confusion, his eyes roaming the room, suddenly frantic when he didn't immediately find it. It wasn't until he finally worked up the courage to look toward his father again when he saw the mobile lying on the kitchen table, a couple of inches away from John's hand. The tips of John's fingers rested against the wooden table top, roughed skin and short-cut nails brushing against the inscription Sam had made all those years ago, the phone within reach yet he didn't seem to find the courage to touch it.

Dean's eyes were as if glued to the phone, his father's hand, the crude carvings in the wooden table, and for a moment everything else stopped.

Just stopped.

The pain of his injuries, the worry about his father's departure – about the hunt for mom's killer, if it ever actually came to it. Nothing mattered for the moment but the need to grab the phone he'd purposely left behind before, to avoid yet another anguished conversation with his brother.

Sam had called every couple of days ever since returning to college. It was more than Dean had ever hoped for. More than he'd ever thought he would get.

Only that suddenly he wasn't so sure why he'd actually hoped for that superficial and perfunctory contact at all.

Because it hurt so goddamn much…

Somehow it hurt more than not hearing from his brother at all.

Had taken Dean a freaking eternity to figure out – to admit to himself that his father might have been right.

Every time the phone rang, Dean got almost giddy with relief, body and mind alight with excitement about hearing Sam ramble on about a course he was taking, a professor he respected or hated, a classmate he'd met in study-group or in the café he apparently worked after school. Dean loved to hear Sam talk, period, just for the feeling of company it gave him. But almost as soon as the first thrill of excitement passed – as much as he had craved the contact, he started to fear the deep, bottomless loneliness that always swamped him as soon as the conversations were over.

He started to fear the goodbye more than he ached for the hello.

What made it worse – made it so much harder to admit to the pain was the fact that Dad had told him all along – back all these years ago.

_A clean cut – the only way to handle this._

But Dean hadn't believed him – had willed dad to be wrong, had been mad at him for making that clean cut for him.

And now he himself was the one walking away when weeks ago he would have been sitting right next to the phone, waiting…

"'Someone call?" Dean asked, lowly, around the lump that had risen in his throat, working on swallowing past the clot sitting right behind his tongue.

John's index finger lightly tapped against the table, once, before stilling again.

"Sam did,"

"Yeah? What did you talk about?" He was aiming for casual, but from look on John's face Dean guessed he wasn't doing such a great job.

"We didn't. Talk. I was outside when it rang, didn't make it in time," John said, his eyes still on Dean, yet shifting into those unreadable depths that Dean had always tried to copy, had admired him for even.

It was a lie, of course, because Dad hadn't been outside, had been sitting in that chair at the table when Dean had left hours ago, probably hadn't moved except for going to the bathroom or taking a beer out of the fridge. Dean's guess was on his phone lying right next to his father, as a matter of fact, John looking at the damn thing even as it rang.

But he hadn't picked up.

Because officially, Sam and John were still where they'd left off some one and a half years ago.

Both of them were way too stubborn to admit to being wrong, none of them willing to step down from their own convictions and approach the other with a peace offering. Taking the first step had never been either of their forte.

Dean's injury had been the only reason they'd called a temporary cease-fire, had managed to not kill each other in the 24 hours or so they'd shared the same house again. Dean knew to take this as the gift that it had been – the devotion both his father and brother had for him, apparently. Even though it sometimes didn't quite feel like it.

John was still watching him, his brain apparently still working overtime. He was a lot like Sam in that department – the way you could almost see him think. But, unlike Sam, John had the impassive face down to perfection, could pull of the unreadable mask better than Dean – better than anyone Dean knew. There were times when even Dean, who probably knew his father better than anyone, had trouble guessing what was going on in his father's head.

Right now he could be mad, could be disappointed, could be feeling sorry for Dean or telling him to pull himself together and stop feeling sorry for himself. It was part of what kept Dean on edge – always had – not knowing if his father was feeling impatient with Dean's slow healing process, with his physical improvements. So now Dean would push himself harder only to find his father reigning him back again the next day, telling him to take it easy – one step at a time.

_One step at a time_.

It was all so damn confusing…

"Are you going to call him back?"

This time it sounded as if John was the one trying for casual, as if he didn't care about what Dean did about this matter. But Dean had a strong suspicion as to what his dad was hoping he'd do, and what he'd feared he would do, on the other hand.

"Maybe later. I think I'll just go rest a bit now – that walk did kinda wear me down, to be honest…"

John just nodded, but he didn't look as relieved as Dean had thought he would.

Maybe he'd finally realized what this cost his son, what it took out of him.

Or, maybe, he'd known for a while already. The mere fact they were even talking about Sam now – in quiet conversation…it was probably more about granting Dean the choice than anything else he could have said or done.

Maybe John actually was giving Dean a choice, here.

They held each others eyes for a couple of moments, silent words spoken between them, and Dean knew he'd made the right choice in staying. For the moment, he wasn't only right where he needed to be, but where he wanted to be, too. Fighting side by side with his Dad, hunting and eventually killing the thing that had taken his Mom – Sam's mom, Dad's wife. Once they were done here, he would figure out where to go next.

With Sam still there with him, for Dean it had always only been about the one hunt – the end-game. Killing the thing that had killed their Mom – the love of their father's life. Dean hadn't ever thought any farther than that. It was only recently that he realized that it probably wouldn't be over for him, then. The one goal – the most important thing that kept them moving would be extinguished, sure, but they'd still keep going. It would be little things, but it still would be about saving people and that was one big, giant incentive right there. Dean didn't know anything else. This was what he'd always done.

And Dean was proud to be a part of it – always would be. Things could only get easier from that point on.

It actually sounded pretty damn good to him.

"I'm gonna let you do…whatever it is you are doing," Dean finally offered, waiting that heartbeat that would allow his father to fill him in on the ominous research he'd been doing, accepting John's silence without bitterness when no explanation came.

He pulled himself off the couch, satisfied when the pain in his stomach and side merely poked at him a little, reminding him of their presence but not being too persistent about it. His leg, due to the straining exercise he'd subjected it to, fared a little worse, so Dean relented and picked up one of the hated crutches to keep him company.

Getting better – one tiny step at a time.

"I'll wake you when dinner's ready," John called after him when he was halfway across the room.

Dean smirked at the though.

Leftover Chinese – heated up in the pan on the rusty stove. But then he couldn't help but smile.

"Sounds great."

OoOoOoO

He woke with a start.

It was the kind of awakening you usually saw in movies only – the sitting up in bed, breathing harshly routine, his heart hammering inside his chest as if it wanted to break his ribs from the inside out.

Instantly, instinctively, Dean reached for his knife – not really knowing what good it would do him if what he'd heard had been right, had not just been a dream. But his knife – the Bowie his Dad had given him for his eighth birthday – had always been Dean's anchor, his reassurance. Back then, he remembered, he'd for the first time felt capable of actually, truly protecting his little brother from the monsters Dad had been telling Dean about, the monsters that, apparently, were all too real.

With the knife securely in his grip Dean was able to slow down his breathing quickly, years of training paying off as he took deep breaths, letting the air rush out of his mouth in a slow, controlled motion. It couldn't have been more than a minute and the rushing sound of blood in his ears was down to almost nothing, no longer covering up the other sounds filling the house.

Dad's phone.

He'd heard Dad's phone ringing.

Not his own, because _that _song – Highway to Hell – was too distinctive, too branded into Dean's brain to mistake it for anything else. For weeks now he'd heard the song and immediately started salivating, almost like one of those dogs…whatever the hell their names had been. A sound triggering an instant reaction...

Pavlov – that was the guy that had tortured those poor dogs with promises of food, schooling their reaction. Funny, how Dean would remember this random bit of information from his long ago and not so frequent visits to school. During the past weeks especially, the melody had triggered a need in Dean that he had trouble placing, the need to pick up and talk to his brother paired with the wish for it all to be over – the heartache and desperation whenever their always too brief conversations were ended again.

Dad's phone.

Not the crow. _NOT the crow…_

For a brief moment there, right before waking up, Dean could have sworn he'd heard the all too familiar, hoarse call of that damned crow again, cutting through his otherwise uneventful dream, dumping him right back into his deepest, darkest nightmare – before he'd pretty much screamed himself awake.

Or so he'd thought.

His throat sure felt dry enough, but maybe he hadn't screamed after all, because there wasn't the rapid sound of footsteps approaching the den where Dean had fallen asleep, his father not rushing in on him as he surely would have if he indeed _had_ screamed. Since they spent so much time so very close to each other it had become even harder to keep secrets from each other – now more so than ever before. In the past, Dad had been gone a lot, but lately he was always there. Right in Dean's face, even. It was unnerving at the same time as it was comforting – reassuring.

But Dad didn't come now.

Dean barely had himself under control again when he realized that the phone had stopped ringing a while ago – and judging from the silence permeating the house John hadn't picked it up.

The sudden burst of panic at the realization had him feeling light-headed once more – if only for a moment.

It didn't necessarily mean that John wasn't here. As a matter of fact, the fact that he'd left his phone in the house meant that he definitely planned on coming back, no matter where he'd gone and for how long he planned on staying gone. He really couldn't be far. Also, John Winchester had a certain reputation of not picking up his phone when being called – almost like his very own business card. As if it made him feel more in control, somehow, being the one who got to choose when to pick up, calling back when it suited him. Flexing of muscles in the world of hunters, maybe, or maybe it was just one of John's many quirks.

Dean had never quite gotten behind his father's motivation of this particular one.

Gradually, Dean forced himself to relax his grip on the knife, easing the weapon back down onto the mattress before using the flats of hands to push himself up until his back leaned against the headboard of the bed.

He'd give himself another minute until the last remnants of sleep released him out of its grip before getting up for good, investigating. Checking on where his father might have gone, making sure the Impala was still parked underneath that wooden carport next to the house. Running the back of his hand roughly over his eyes, dislodging grit and tangled lashes from his burning eyes, Dean swung his good leg off the bed, using his free hand to drag the bad one after.

Where the hell had he left his crutches?

He positively thought he'd jumped, definitely giving something akin to a humiliating little yelp, when he turned around, toward the other wall where the bunk bed stood and found John sitting on the lower mattress, watching him.

"Jesus…what the…the hell you doing there? You trying to give me a freaking heart attack?" the words left Dean's mouth in a rush, too clipped and harsh to not cover up his humiliation, his embarrassment at being caught unawares like this.

Why the hell hadn't he realized sooner? He should have felt it, heard his father's breathing. He shouldn't have been so caught up in…whatever it was he'd been caught up in to not realize someone else was in the room with him. If this hadn't been his father – had been god only knew what else…Dean could be dead by now – or worse.

John sat on the bottom bunk, hands clasped between his knees, his eyes dark and unreadable, his jaw tight.

"You dreamed again,"

It was a statement rather than a question and Dean swallowed hard, realizing that he had one hand clamped around the knife once more, at least having the presence of mind to go for his weapon – an instinct so deeply ingrained into his very being.

"I called you…talked to you. But you didn't hear me,"

The words sounded soft, worried, not at all the reproach Dean had been expecting.

Only a couple of weeks ago there would have been no forgiveness for him slacking out like this, letting his guard down. But it seemed like a lot of things had changed lately – even some things Dean wasn't entirely comfortable with.

"I…I heard…your phone was ringing. Startled me, is all," Dean stuttered, cursing himself at how it came out.

How long had Dad been sitting there, watching him already? And if that meant that he _had_ dreamed again… But he couldn't remember anything, up to that ominous cry that had started him awake, so it had to be one hell of a sucky premonition on the crow's part. What good was a damn vision if you didn't remember what it was about?

John somehow looked away, dropping his eyes and while he didn't worry his lip or screw his forehead into the deepest ravines imaginable, like Sam would under the circumstances, he managed to still give Dean a clear enough impression that something was wrong.

"Heard you yelling out when the phone started to ring, so I came in here. I wanted to make sure you were…"

"I'm alright," Dean interrupted his father quietly.

So, maybe he hadn't woken quite as instantly as he'd thought. Still didn't explain why John was sitting there like a peeping Tom, not announcing his presence.

"You had one of those…dreams again?" John asked solemnly.

Dean shook his head, again rubbing the back of his hands over burning eyelids.

"No, nothing like it. I'm…why didn't you wake me? If you heard me, why didn't you wake me instead of sitting there, looking at me like you're some kind of peeping tom?"

"It always used to be better to let you dig your way out of your nightmares yourself. Even back when you were little. Found out the hard way," John gestured to a scar on his left cheek, a gentle grin softening his features, "when you used the new knife I'd given you for you birthday only a week or so before and you managed to get the drop on me."

Again Dean swallowed, confusion making his brows draw tight.

"What…I…Sammy was the one with the nightmares,"

Dean hadn't been the one waking up screaming and crying in the middle of the night, all his life. It had always been Sam, and Dean had always known just how to handle his little brother at situations like that. And Sam hadn't woken up fighting. On the contrary – he'd used to cling to Dean like he was the only one being able to catch him, to protect him from the monsters chasing his dreams.

John tilted his head, the smile not vanishing from his face even though it shifted into something more painful.

"You used to, too. When you were little. But you never remembered afterwards, just woke up kicking and lashing out. If I woke you before, it only made things worse. So I'd just sit there and you'd dig yourself out of it and wouldn't remember a single thing later."

John shrugged, dropping his shoulders a little.

"It stopped when you got older. Right when Sam's dreams got worse. Like you shuck yours in order to be able to be there for him…"

At that, finally, he broke off. Dean didn't think he'd have been able to take another second of awkward soul-baring.

He didn't remember one thing of what his Dad just told him. Which didn't necessarily make the whole story made up.

The silence that ensued, paired with the way Dad still looked at him squarely unsettled Dean somewhat. He just wasn't used to this…openness from his father. John usually wasn't the one sharing memories – Dean had always had to be the one keeping the family history vivid and remembered, no matter how much it hurt at times.

"So, uhm…" he rubbed the palm of his hands over his thighs as if to dry them, looking around the room to find his crutches, aiming to make getting up and moving, at least for the first few minutes, a bit easier on himself. It usually took a while until the last remnants of sleep drained out of his aching bones nowadays, until his body loosened up again. "I am awake now. You might want to check your phone, see who called,"

John got up, picking up Dean's crutches and handing them over, watching silently from a little distance until his son had pulled himself to his feet and balanced his weight, bad leg carrying some of his weight for the moment.

"It was Caleb,"

The shortness of the statement pulled Dean up short, a tiny ball of lead settling low in his stomach.

"Oh, alright,"

"We talked a couple times lately, compared notes. I'll just call him back later."

It was then that Dean remembered the talk his father had had with Caleb a couple of weeks before.

The pit in his stomach grew.

They walked into the kitchen, Dean settling at the table, noting how his father apparently had been researching – again or still, when he'd been sidetracked.

His phone lay on the table next to the laptop, blinking furiously. Dean eyed it suspiciously, not buying the nonchalant way his father went about preparing some pre-packed oven-dinners, placing the steaming trays of plastic and a couple cans of beer on the table between them.

"So, you guys caught scent of another hunt yet?" Dean asked, casually, realizing that he was itching for another hunt, to get moving again. Anything to escape this inactivity that left him too much time to think about what he'd lost. Again. "Caleb always has something up his sleeve. Maybe, another week or two, we could meet up with him,"

Dad didn't answer immediately, which had Dean looking up, a macaroni still dangling out of the corner of his mouth. The pit in his stomach was back again, and this time Dean was sure it was everything but unfounded.

When John looked up at him, Dean felt the pit disappear, felt it swallowed up by a _nothingness_ that was too big and too complete to be put into words.

"Dean, there's something we should talk about…"

OoOoOoO

Dean watched them pack the car from his perch on the sorry excuse for a porch.

He sat on the front steps, his cast clad leg stretched out across the width of the stairs, back against the banister. He sat a little too straight, was a little too tense to appear quite as nonchalant and unaffected as he wanted them to belief he felt. John could see it – and so could Caleb. But the other hunter had the decency to not call Dean on it, exchanged some meaningless small talk with the kid, never once letting on bout the mess of fading yet still visible scars on Dean's neck, peeking out from underneath the t-shirt he was wearing.

At least the bruises were practically gone already, at least from John's point of view, who still had a very vivid picture of the purple and black array of blotches and welts that had adorned Dean's shoulder and neck right after the attack of the skinwalker. Hell, every time he closed his eyes he remembered so much more, so much more…

Caleb crouched on his haunches in front of Dean, both of them in deep conversation and while John knew that his son always had been fond of the man he couldn't help but feel jealous of his old friend. Dean hadn't said much to him, besides shop-talk and the bare necessities since he'd found out that John would be leaving again.

Even though, officially, they had agreed on this. They had talked about the necessity of John getting his truck again, for once, about helping Caleb with a hunt he couldn't take care of himself. A hunt that Dean wasn't fit to tackle yet. Dean had agreed, had goddamn given his _permission_. He'd said he understood.

Sighing, John finished loading the last of his bags into the trunk of Caleb's car, feeling a strange tug of melancholy in his heart as his eyes fell on the sleek, black skin of the Impala, standing shadowed by the wooden roof of the carport next to the house.

He'd miss riding her.

One of the few upsides of having to leave the truck behind all those weeks ago had been being able to ride in the Impala again.

She'd been his first car, the first car he'd bought with his own money, at least. He remembered so many times he and Mary had taken her for a ride, picnics at the lake – John taking her out in the middle of the night when Dean had been an infant and hadn't been able to go to sleep until her purring engine had pulled him under.

John had always cared for her – more than he'd ever cared for another car before or after, in his life. The only reason he'd handed her over to his son all those years ago had been that he knew that Dean cared for her even more than he did. Dean loved that car with a vengeance that bordered on being comical at times but while Sam had made fun of his brother for it, John had smiled and understood. And, as much as it hurt to admit it, he'd probably taken much better care of her than John ever had.

But he wasn't really sorry about leaving her behind now. There were plenty other things to regret – enough to last him more than just one lifetime.

John closed the trunk of Caleb's pickup with an audible thud, watching Dean turn his head away from Caleb, saw the other hunter look up at him as well. Upon seeing that he was done, Caleb leant forward to grip Dean shoulder lightly, squeezing it gently and saying something to him before getting up and turning to walk down the stairs and toward the car.

He passed John and, with a silent nod and a pointed look climbed into the driver's seat of the pickup, leaving John and Dean to say their own awkward goodbyes.

John took a deep breath, steeling himself. This definitely wasn't going to be easy.

As he took his first step toward his boy he saw Dean struggling awkwardly to his feet, frustration shortly overshadowing the placid calmness of his features as the dragged his heavy leg across the floor, shifting a little until he had a firm enough balance on his two feet again. John walked slowly, giving his son time to brace himself, knowing that it was more important to him than anything.

He deserved to be prepared.

Dean limped heavily as he descended down the two steps leading into the driveway, coming to stand a couple of feet in front of John, who realized that his shoulders at least had lost some of the all too familiar tenseness the bruised and torn muscles had provided him with over the past weeks. He was healing. But it wasn't enough yet. Not with what John knew was about to come.

"We're about ready to get going," John offered calmly, determined to not let this get out of hand.

He had a mission, and he wasn't going to risk his son in this – not now. He would need him later, John knew that, but he wasn't ready to sacrifice him just yet. Not until he knew more, was better prepared…

Dean just nodded.

"You got all the papers so you can get that thing removed next week?" John asked, gesturing towards Dean's cast.

Again Dean just nodded.

"And you remember your PT, the instruction the doctor gave you?" he pressed on, determined to break his son's silence.

But once again Dean nodded, bit his lips and looked to the side.

"Dean…let's not do this," John sighed, but Dean finally cut him off, head moving back towards him much more quickly than his eyes did, though.

"I've got everything under control. You don't need to worry about me," His voice was flat and emotionless, betraying the telltale glint of hurt in his eyes.

This time it was on John to nod.

"Alright, yeah. I know you do,"

"You're not going to take the Impala's keys from me, mail them to me when you think I'm ready to drive again?" Dean asked suddenly, and he didn't even try trying to mask the sarcasm in his voice teasing, was aiming straight for the jugular. It was something that John was used from Sam but not his eldest and sure enough, upon closer inspection, John thought he detected a hint of that stubborn, pushed forward bottom jaw that he'd come to detest so much in Sam…

"I'm not…Dean…" John sighed, ran a hand over his face and through his 7 day stubble, closing his eyes to dig into those last, almost nonexistent resources of patience that just had to be hidden _somewhere_.

"Dean, let's not do this now, OK? We've talked about this. I'm not leaving because I think you're not capable…"

"Yeah, great. Too bad it doesn't feel that way to me. Too bad it's not what you really think,"

John had expected venom, accusation in his son's voice but all he got was silent defeat, Dean once again slipping back into his familiar mode of silent suffering. John dropped his hand from his face and looked away from his son, giving the house a once over, as if to check if everything was alright there. Truth was he couldn't stand to look into those eyes anymore, eyes that reminded him so much of Mary. This was exactly what he imagined Mary to look at him if she knew what had become of her boys…

"You know that's not true, Dean. I told you that's not what this is about. I'm not going to go there again,"

"Fine, fine, lets not, then. Just…call me when…"

Dean drifted off, biting his lower lip for a second before he became aware of the gesture of insecurity, releasing it again with a snap.

"Dean,"

"Whatever dad. Just…take care of yourself. Don't worry about me, I'm going to be fine,"

The last sentence was said so quietly, so brokenly, John felt his heart clench at the look of defeat in his son's eyes.

"Don't push yourself too hard, Dean, alright? You can stay here as long as you like, don't feel obliged to get up and moving again too soon. Your body still needs time to heal. You just need to take it easy,"

"Yeah – coming from the master of Zen, that really carries a lot of conviction, Dad." Dean shot back, the hint of amusement heavily coated by dripping sarcasm as he impatiently shifted his weight, his eyes flicking over to Caleb's car before returning to his father's face.

"Fine, yeah…OK. I'll call you when the hunt is taken care of…when Caleb dropped me off at the garage to pick up the truck. Shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks at the most," John offered quietly.

"Right,"

They stood there for another couple of seconds, uncomfortable silence stretching the very short time into an eternity. Both wondering which hunt exactly John was talking about, how many hunts it would actually take until he'd find the time and courage to pick up the phone again and call his son.

John knew he should be going – needed to be going. He knew Dean could handle this. He wasn't alright, sure, his body and mind still healing, but he was past the point where he needed his father to look out for him, right? Dean was going to be alright – he'd said so himself. And he'd be in greater danger if John took him with him, allowed him to participate in this hunt that just might give him a clue as to what had killed his beloved Mary. If Caleb had been right about this, which was still the biggest IF ever. They'd been at exactly this point about a half dozen times before only to once again find themselves working a dead-end.

Still he couldn't find the right words to say goodbye, didn't know what to say to not either get Dean going again or break him even further.

In the end, Dean was the one relieving him of the decision as he took a limping step towards his father, briefly embracing him with his right arm, holding on tightly, but way too quickly breaking the contact again. John felt empty as his son slipped out of his grip once more.

Dean kept his eyes down, nodded at his father one last time, then turned around and walked back into the house.

There was no angry stomping of feet, no banging of doors and still John thought he felt his son's frustration and disappointment wash over him like a smothering wave crashing against the shore.

Dean accepted John's decision, but he hadn't done so willingly.

And John was absolutely sure that he didn't _understand_.

OoOoOoO

tbc

_AN:_

_So, I am so relieved that I could post today, because it didn't seem likely until about a week ago. I had nothing._

_This chapter was written and I was about to post it last saturday, as promised, because I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer. But I wasn't satisfied with it, no matter how I looked at it. A writer's block is something terrible - and maybe it was sired by a hell of a stressful week or two at work, but it seems that I'm past it. At least, I hope you agree. _

_Up until five minutes ago I loved this chapter. Now, naturally, I'm not so sure anymore, but I guess it was to be expected. Is there something like stage-fright for ff-authors? There has to be, because I have a serious case of it!_

_One more chapter after this one, and I hope that it will manage to wrap up this story that by now means so much to me in a way you can all live with. _

_Thank you all so, so much for your wonderful reviews last chapter. They were one of the things that kept me sane, I think._

_I hope to hear from you all again._

_And, last but not least - only two more weeks to go until Season 6! I'm so excited. _

_Love you all and take care!_


	29. Chapter 29

_I did it. The last chapter._

_Still don't own them, in case you've been wondering._

_There's never an easy way to finish a story, so I'm just going to barge ahead before I change my mind._

**Crows in the Wheatfield**

_All day  
Staring at the ceiling  
Making friends with shadows on my wall  
All night  
Hearing voices telling me  
That I should get some sleep  
Because tomorrow might be good for something_

_Hold on_

_I'm feeling like I'm headed for a breakdown_

_And I don't know why_

- Unwell by Matchbox Twenty

**Chapter 29**

The house was far too quiet.

The TV had died two days ago.

Since then the silence had turned thick, palpable, consuming – and utterly crushing in its intensity.

Dean had always thought he was good at fixing thing, but it turned out TV sets weren't his specialty. Or maybe he'd just not found it in him, had been too preoccupied to really set his mind to it because he'd known that no movie or TV-show in the whole world would be able to fill that aching hollowness in his heart, or silence the raging storm inside his head.

The absence of sound in house left Dean floating in a void he was everything but comfortable with. Left him with too much time to think how he'd messed this all up so royally, from start to finish. Starting with the hunt, going on with letting Sam leave right when he'd finally gotten him in his grasp again. And then letting Dad leave, too, as if he wasn't so damn afraid of being alone it almost killed him to even think about it.

Dean was seriously starting to doubt his sanity, his capability to find back to some kind of inner peace anymore. His sense of self-preservation was way off, considering how he managed to push away the only two people he'd needed the most right now - always had.

Dad was gone for more than a week and already Dean was close to going insane.

He'd caught himself talking – to nobody but himself, because there simply wasn't anybody there _but_ him.

He'd read through every single one of the ratty paperbacks he'd found on the moldy shelve above the living room sofa. Sam would have gone giddy with excitement if he'd caught his brother reading the Lord of the Rings – at least volume 2 and 3 of the trilogy. The first part had been missing, but Dean had been able to figure out the missing pieces by himself. He was never going to admit it, but he'd kinda liked the damn books, even though it had taken him a while to ease into the weird way they were written. They were currently stored underneath the Impala's backseat, out of sight but still close by in case Dean ever found that first volume at a thrift shop or one of those library sales Sam used to love going to. Dean figured he might want to have the other two parts handy then, could maybe read them again – see if he'd missed something the first time around.

But, more likely, he would throw them out a couple of weeks from now, when he was back to normal again – back in the game.

And for now he was done reading. He was done sitting around, doing nothing.

If it wasn't for his leg, still fucked up and weak – most definitely not ready to carry him through a hunt, especially on his own, Dean would have been long gone already. Ever since getting the cast removed a couple of days ago, and coming back here armed with an armload of brochures on PT and muscle strengthening therapy which he had disposed of immediately, he was starting to itch again.

That famous itch one couldn't scratch.

It was the simple fact that he didn't know where to go that kept him from getting up and moving now.

It had never struck him as much as it did right now, that he actually had _nowhere_ to go.

There was Bobby, of course, but again – since the fallout with Dad they hadn't been at the junkyard anymore – had grown distant. Dean knew that, most likely, Bobby would welcome him back with open arms, should he show up at the man's door, would let him stay for as long as he liked as long as John Winchester wasn't part of the deal. But it didn't feel right, somehow, felt like a betrayal to go there now, behind his father's back.

Then there was Pastor Jim, of course, but Dean didn't think he was up to Jim's well-meant yet unnerving way to look at Dean, talking to him in those gentle tones, trying to analyze his every action or word. Dean was done thinking, done talking. He wanted nothing more but to _not_ talk about what happened, and with Jim he would no doubt have to do just that.

Or he could pay Sam a visit.

It actually sounded pretty damn enticing – right up to the point where Dean didn't know what he'd do once he was there. He went insane with claustrophobia just thinking of spending even more time than he already had stuck in one and the same place, no real purpose, nothing to hunt. The upside of the whole scenario – being with Sam – was easily outweighed by the fact that Dean simply didn't belong there. It hurt to realized that, as much as he needed Sam, maybe the kid didn't need Dean the same way. Maybe it was a growing-up thing, a boy needing to break free and all that. And maybe Dean just needed to accept that, let the kid move on.

Just like Dean needed to _move._

And he needed to focus here, see past the paralyzing need to keep both his brother and his father happy, do right by both of them.

The way he saw it, there was only one out of two ways to handle this. It was a decision he should have made more than one and a half years ago already, Dean knew that.

He could pack the car, go to California, take Sam up on the offer of a free room and board for a couple of weeks, see if he somehow could settle down and find some peace in the life his brother so obviously thrived at.

Or he could go with his father, once and for all, leave Sam behind. A clean cut – as clean as it got. He'd still drop by every once in a while, of course, unbeknownst to his little brother, make sure that the kid was alright. No matter what, Dean still was the big brother here. There was no possible way of carving that out of him, no matter how sharp the knife or how determined the surgeon.

But right now he had no idea what he would do – what he _should_ do. He had no clue what would be the smart thing to do - what would make sense and what would just make everything worse.

Ever since Dad had left, Dean had pushed the inevitable decision away from him, delaying it for a day and then another and before he knew it, here he was– his body almost healed.

Not that he was up to running yet – he couldn't even walk without a goddamn limp that made him look like that hunchback from the Disney movie. But he was walking, and his shoulder felt almost like new.

So he'd have to start and get back to at least a semblance of a routine again, soon. Maybe another couple of days, just to make sure that Dad really wasn't coming back…

Till then he'd wait – here – sitting on the porch like an old man, watching the world pass him by, waiting for his phone to ring with news from his father.

He'd given up waiting on Sam, though.

The kid had finally stopped calling. Had taken him long enough – and still not nearly long enough at all.

And now the silence was complete – no phone, no TV…not even his father to keep him company. With the walls slowly closing in on him, Dean had started to spent most of his days outside. He'd been walking around the yard a little, visiting places he remembered from his childhood – which seemed like more than a lifetime ago. He'd been to the tree-house Dad had built for them, had found the remnants of the tire-swing Dean himself had put up when he and Sam had stayed here alone, once. Sam had spent days on that damn swing, pestering Dean to push him for hours on end, squealing in delight when Dean had pushed him higher and higher.

The rope had long since rotted away, leaving the tire laying abandoned in the dry grass at the edge of the forest.

It had been good times – good memories. Dean cherished those more than anything else nowadays.

But the past couple of days it had rained almost constantly and he'd been confined to the house for almost four days. It hadn't sat well with him – at all.

Now, for the first day the wind wasn't rattling the house, pelting its back-porch with rain and making it impossible for Dean to sit outside, in his favorite spot – wedged into the corner where the railing met the back wall of the house.

Today, it was nice out, warm, the air still smelling faintly of rain and wet earth, a unfamiliar smell that, more than anything, made Dean feel out of place. He hardly remembered times in his past where he'd let himself just sit and feel - smell –enjoy the sunlight on his skin. His life had been constant motion, even when he hadn't actively moved, but still his mind had always been on edge…

Dean shifted, rearranged his body in order to keep the sun on his face, following its lazy path across the sky. He closed his eyes, head tilted back, relaxing his body as far as possible. If it wasn't for the odd twinge in his leg every now and then, the flashes of memories still chasing through his brain every once in a while he'd almost feel normal. He hardly ever was entirely free of pain anyways, always a bruise here or a cut there marring his movements and reminding him that he did what he did, was who he was - and that he was damn lucky to have made it this far.

While the sun was pretty intense there was a light breeze tickling his skin, making the temperature bearable. Still he knew he'd probably burn if he didn't get inside soon. Dean's skin didn't react too nicely to direct sunlight, not at all like his brother or even father who tanned effortlessly, it seemed. But Dean didn't really care. He felt like he'd been too cold, inside and out, for far too long to not revel in the feeling of warmth seeping into his skin and bones.

Soon he'd be leaving again, probably never to come back again, and then these moments of inactivity would be nonexistent and probably longed for. He'd be on the road again, never time to just stop and close his eyes every once in a while, never time to just lay back and give his body time to heal...

He wasn't complaining – this was the life he'd chosen, after all. Still didn't mean that one couldn't savor the perks of an otherwise pretty stressful job every once in a while.

He was ripped out of his musings so suddenly, it took him a moment to catch up with what had disturbed him in the first place.

And then he felt it again, the light brush of a new breeze over his cheeks, different than the cooling wind of before, his body going tense as he felt more than heard the stroke of wings as they stirred the air into tiny turbulences against his heated skin.

For a second, then another, he stayed completely still, not breathing even, not wanting to know if he'd been right…

When he opened his eyes, it was right there.

Sitting perched atop the wooden banister, dry flakes of peeling off-white paint chipping off from underneath its claws was the crow. _The_ crow.

It probably looked like hundreds and thousands of others from its species, but there was doubt in Dean's mind. No doubt whatsoever.

Scrambling backwards as far away as he could go Dean pushed himself upright, his back ramrod straight against the wall, using the sturdy wooden structure as support. Within the beat of a second, his heart-rate sped up to seemingly impossible levels, his breathing becoming so fast he thought he might start to hyperventilate.

"Oh hell no, you got to be kidding me…"

His hand automatically reached for his gun, fingers working frantically on getting between his back and the wall he was pressed against, fighting to tug the weapon free from its confined position.

The bird just cocked its head, curiously seizing up the human before it, beady black eyes following every one of Dean's movements.

It wasn't until Dean finally had his gun freed, had it grasped in his hand, the safety released, that he suddenly realized the futility of his actions.

Wasn't as if killing the bird would change anything, even if it actually was a real, alive, breathing animal. Which Dean still wasn't sure about.

Had the bird ever been real to begin with? John had mentioned seeing a crow in the field when looking for Dean, but still it could have only been an illusion, appearing before John to save Dean, right?

And even if it wasn't real, was just some kind of hallucination sneaking behind the paper-thin walls of Dean's sanity, what effect would killing it actually have? Would shooting it full of rock salt or silver alter the future or change whatever it had been planning to show Dean – would change Dean's destiny?

Because, theoretically speaking, the damn bird itself had never been a threat to him so far, had it? It had proven to be nothing but helpful, as a matter of fact, had saved John's life - Dean's too. Dean should be thankful, actually, shouldn't attempt to kill it for its efforts to keep him and his family safe…

It was simply the fact that it was there – was something that Dean couldn't explain, couldn't control - couldn't kill, that made him feel on edge around the creature. It wasn't like his usual jobs, not something Dean knew how to deal with. Usually it was all about finding the creature that had been harming people and kill it. Black and white.

The bird – albeit sporting a pitch-black plumage, somehow didn't fit in Dean's all too handy color-scheme, though.

And here was another thing Dean had learned from his father. If you're not sure, you need to _make_ sure. No room for mistakes.

So Dean forced himself to relax.

It was an effort, and Dean was almost shaking with the pure force it took to ease his cramped muscles, opening his body along with his mind for what was about to come. But he kept the gun tightly in his grip, just to be sure. It was the only thing tethering him to the last remnants of sanity, it seemed, gave him at least a semblance of control. And he wasn't going to let his guard down again. Not until he was absolutely sure.

Keeping one eye on the bird, Dean looked around for a second, taking in the by now all too familiar surrounding.

Doing this he realized that the air was too…sweet, too calm, smelling faintly of some kind of flower he'd never been aware of before, the colors once again superimposed and far too bright. The sky was dipped in the deepest, brightest cerulean blue, the faraway clouds that had been there before now gone. The house, in reality off-white with chipped and flaked off pieces of paint revealing the aged wooden planks underneath was now picture perfect, bright white with not a speck of dirt marring its walls or railing. The grass in the yard, formerly a dull, grayish-gold now presented itself in the most intense green Dean had ever seen, a few scattered daisies the only dots of color in the ocean of green. It even looked as if the lawn had been mowed recently, the fresh scent of cut grass permeating Dean's nostrils, tickling his nose almost pleasantly.

Another vision. And he was once again stuck in the middle of it.

Dean stomach fluttered and flipped, muscles in his belly twitching as he prepared himself – for what exactly he didn't know. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or concerned, wished he could just close his eyes and make it all go away. But, as the problem with visions was, you couldn't make them go away – you couldn't just close your eyes in a dream, right?

The crow started walking towards him, sharp claws making small squealing noises against the white paint as it side-hopped a couple of steps till it was stopped by one of the porch's vertical support beams that held up the slightly tilting roof. Dean followed the bird's every movement, levering his body so he remained facing the animal. His back was pressed smug against the wall, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, foot solidly planted against the floor.

He barely had time to realize that his left leg was not hurting anymore, didn't have the time nor the leisure to revel in the fact that, for the moment at least, the vision granted him a moment free of pain, at least of the physical kind.

"What is it you want from me? There's nothing…nothing I've got left to give anymore,"

The bird gave a small cackling sound, sounding so much like a snicker, Dean couldn't help but frown at the sound, the almost human quality to the animal's behavior in general. And he couldn't help but peer at the bird's eyes, unconsciously checking the beady black orbs for any transformation, waiting for that momentary flash of yellow that he'd remembered seeing back in the field.

Everything else the bird had done so far Dean was able to allocate to something Sam had told him about – the foresight thing – warning Dean of something bad to happen, giving him clues – protecting him. The eyes were the only thing Dean hadn't been able to figure out – and the only thing that still scared the holy shit out of him.

The crow gave another muttering croak, turning its head and peering up at the support-beam, seemingly annoyed at finding its pathway blocked. It took only a moment to halt in its movement though before slightly spreading its wings and hopping off of its perch, landing a mere couple of inches away from Dean's outstretched leg.

Dean forced himself to stay still, to not drag the leg away – or kick out at the animal. He kept his hands in his lap, fingers wrapped around the handle yet had the weapon neither cocked nor pointed. Lore had it that in order to wake up from a dream you had to actually kill yourself – in the dream. Dean would hold on to the gun in case he felt the need to use it, but there certainly was no use pointing it at the one creature, supernatural or not, that had saved his life more than once, so far.

For a full minute, all they did was stare at each other, Dean finding himself mesmerized by the seemingly bottomless depth of the crow's black orbs, felt as if being sucked into the animal's very being. He was sure his jaw would creak with the pressure he put of his jaw, grinding his teeth, trying his hardest to look away, to escape the animal's strange, yet not entirely uncomfortable pull.

Then the bird cocked its head, tipping it in the other direction and opening its beak to give a hoarse shout.

Dean flinched, instinctively gripping the gun a little tighter. The muscles in his arm jumped, trembled, but the weapon stayed where it was.

"We're going to have a real hard time here if we don't find a way to communicate so we both understand each other, Tweety." He taunted, trying to cover up the tremor sneaking into his voice, the insecurity that screamed loud and clear from every word he uttered.

As if in response, the crow again croaked a hoarse, wailing sound that made Dean flinch once more.

"Yeah…uhm…problem is, I don't really speak…crow-ian. So…you wanna try that again in English?"

Another sharp croak was the only answer to Dean's quip, and the bird moved to the side a little, ruffling out the shining black feathers covering its chest and neck, its tail and wings fanning out to brush against the wooden floor.

"Yeah, that sure clears it up…" Dean huffed, watching in fascinated amusement as the crow shook itself, smoothing out its plumage until once again its inky black feathers were sleek and glistening as the sun's rays reflected off it.

It really was beautiful – kinda. If you liked that kind of bird, that was. If you liked birds, period.

"So, we going to sit here all day, getting to know each other or are there any more revelations you want to share with me? You didn't come all this way from…wherever it is you're coming from just to spent some quality time with me – in my dreams, right? You know of some new catastrophe bearing down on me, something I should know about? Come on, you can tell me – it's just between the two of us…"

Internally, Dean rolled his eyes at himself, thrown by the fact that - here he was, Dean Winchester, talking to a damn bird. If that wasn't proof of how goddamn lonely he was, Dean didn't know what would be.

"Right, of course. Of all the birds to choose as my damn spirit animal or whatever the hell it is that you are, I have to choose a crow. Not, say, one of those talking parrots at least. With those I could at least communicate, skipping that annoying guessing game. I've never been a fan of interpreting signs or doing riddles, you know. You've picked the wrong brother for this little game of yours,"

The crow just stared at him, and slowly but surely Dean felt the last of his tension slip off him, felt the immediate unease he'd felt at the birds presence drain out of him. He couldn't really explain it, but nothing about this bird suggested danger – not the tiniest sense of a threat surrounding it.

This was ridiculous – wrong on so many levels. But Sammy was right – they'd certainly heard of stranger things.

_Most definitely_ heard of stranger things.

"You don't come with a handbook, by any chance? Or an interpreter, maybe, someone who can translate your weird ass signs for me?"

The bird cocked its head to the side in the universal gesture of curiosity.

Dean sighed heavily.

"Yeah, didn't think so."

Slowly, he pried his sweaty fingers away from his gun, ran the hand over his face and rubbing slightly trembling fingers over his eyes for a second before dropping it back into his lap.

He flicked his tongue our to wet his bottom lip before rolling it in between his teeth, momentarily averting his gaze and shaking his head, trying to summon the courage to do what he knew he should do, by all means.

If it wasn't so damn ridiculous…

But there was nobody there to see it, nobody to witness.

And it was all inside his own head anyways.

The head-shake turned into a nod, a reinforcement.

He'd certainly done weirder things in his life than this.

"OK, so…I guess I need to…I should definitely…"

Dean snorted a laugh.

"Man, Sammy would have a blast - would never let me live this down…"

He once again met the animal's eyes, seeing his own reflection in the jet-black orbs, wincing at the pale gauntness of his face, the haunted expression looking back at him from his own eyes.

Was this what he really looked like? He hadn't exactly paid a lot of attention to the mirror, lately, seeing as he hadn't been in public – safe for his hospital visits, since the accident.

"I guess I owe you…owe you a lot, actually. For…I don't know… If you hadn't been there, in the field, keeping me conscious and on the right path…" he paused, swallowed as the memories pushed again his composure, trying to make him remember – relive what should have been long forgotten, safely buried underneath so many layers of self-preserving walls there should be no possible way out anymore. But he was stronger now, almost his old self again. He could push past this…

And he could definitely pull this off.

"I…thanks, you know, for saving my Dad's life,"

Dean broke off, trying to sort out his thoughts.

"I don't know why you did what you did, why you chose me of all people, but…I'm going to go with Sam's theory here and believe that there's a bigger picture, somehow, that there was a reason for all this. You saved my ass…"

Dean bit off the rest of the sentence, forbidding himself to go on.

He wasn't good at saying thank you, apparently, wasn't good at voicing his thoughts. But if the bird was a spirit animal, it would know, right? Dean certainly wouldn't need to spell it out for it.

And then, as if the damn animal had understood, Dean could have sworn that the crow nodded its head, or tipped it in acknowledgement, before parting its wings. The porch's width made it hard to spread its wings completely so it took a few hopping steps to the side, clearing Dean's legs and moving closer to the steps that let down into the yard. It had to jump a couple of times, flapping its strong appendages hard once, twice, before it managed to take off, propelling its big body onto the top of the railing once more.

There it sat still for a second, body facing away from Dean, looking out over the vastness of grass and forest spreading out behind the house. Then it turned its head back. The sun was behind its body now, and Dean had to squint against the light, hardly able to make out any details anymore.

Somehow, it felt like a goodbye.

Dean knew a thing or two about good-byes.

This one now, while it definitely should feel less like a punch in the guts, it still tasted an awful lot like a betrayal.

Dean swallowed down the bitterness that started to rise from his belly, cleared his throat.

"Hey, I got one last question for you…one last…look into your crystal ball, or whatever you wanna call it."

He pulled himself up a little more, straightening his back and dipping his head low to let his lashes shield his eyes from the sun – maybe from the all too knowing eyes of the bird. Even though he could hardly see it, he somehow had the feeling that the bird could see him all too well.

"I just…if you know everything and all…I just…you can take another little peek into the future and tell me if this…" he bit his lip so hard, he tasted blood, fingers once again tight around his gun's handle, finger resting against the trigger even though the safety was still on.

Taking another deep breath and letting it out slowly, he went on.

"I need to know if this is it…if I'm on my own again for good now…"

It was a stupid question, one that Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted an answer to, because he wasn't sure he was prepared for the truth. He wasn't sure what he'd do if it turned out to be the end as he'd always feared it would come.

Of course, the crow didn't answer, didn't give a sign or anything. Maybe Dean should have stuck to questions with '_yes' _or '_no'_ answers…

Another second at the most later the bird suddenly turned its head back around and lunged forward, its huge body seemingly falling, disappearing out of sight before a powerful stroke of wings lifted it upwards, carrying it away.

And maybe that was Dean's answer right there. Not even so goddamn hard to figure out, was it?

There was no logical explanation for it, but the minute the bird left, Dean knew that this time it would stay gone for good. The bird's departure was final, felt almost like the teeth of the black dog, tearing into his side. Dean's chin snapped back in irritated pain, surprised at the harshness of the bird's actions, the emotions it stirred inside of him. As if he'd actually expected anything else.

It took almost physical force to turn his head, tearing his eyes away from that tiny dot of black in the far distance that probably wasn't the crow anymore but still remained in Dean's line of sight.

"Fine. You're all mysterious. I get it," He muttered, unclenching his fingers from around the hilt of his gun.

The inside of his palm carried the deep imprints of the pearl-handle's outlines and Dean stared at it for a moment, watching the indentations slowly smooth out again until his skin was once again only marred by the faint scars and callused skin that had been there all along.

The silence once again closed in around him…consuming him, filling him from the inside before seeping out of his pores. This was what it felt like to be drowning, Dean thought as the blackness filled every last crevice of his body – his being. At first, he did nothing, sitting there and fighting down the urge to panic as his body seemingly locked up, intent on pulling his mind right along with it.

Reality didn't return with a bang. There was no explosion of light, no tilting edges or tumbling falls. He didn't wake with a gasp, a sharp intake of air, a scream of terror on his lips like he had the last couple of times he'd woken after one of his _dreams_.

The next time he simply blinked, he was back.

The world had faded back to its grayish colors, the sun still warm but less bright, the wind less soothing.

For an eternity he just sat there, just breathing.

And then, suddenly, Dean decided that it was enough.

He'd bend to his body's demands for weeks now, taking a step back in order to give himself time to heal. But now came the time to find back to his old self again. He was done waiting for somebody else to make the decisions for him.

The crow – it had to have been a sign. Just like Sam had said. A portent, carrier of truth and future. A protector. It had stayed with Dean when he'd been at the most lonely in his life, had kept him company and led him the way when he'd been lost. It had guided him out of his darkest moment, had shown him that there was still something worth fighting for – for himself and his father, for Sammy's freedom.

It had left now because it was time for Dean to get his life back into his own hands again.

Dean had no doubt that, this time, its departure was a permanent one.

Time to move on – for both of them.

It was probably looking for another lost soul to save right this moment.

It wouldn't come back.

Nobody would.

Pulling himself to his feet Dean tried to figure out if the knowledge that he was once again free to do whatever he wanted was a relief or the burden it somehow felt like.

For weeks now he'd been paralyzed by the need to wait for someone to come back to him, waiting for what he actually knew would never happen. Sam and Dad - the two suns he'd been revolving around all his life.

He knew – and still he'd waited. And hoped. But that was over now.

He walked back inside the house with newfound resolve, only stopping at the door for a mere second, dreading the ever deepening shadows that greeted him beyond the screen door. But for the first time in months he thought that he could face them now.

Inside, the shadows were like living beings, devouring every last ounce of light that found its way inside – as if the house itself wanted to give Dean that final push, that last reason to move on. He'd stayed here out of necessity, out of convenience. He'd stayed because, at first, he hadn't been able to leave – physically speaking. And then, when he'd healed enough, he'd stayed out of fear. Stayed out of fear that, if he left and Dad came back to get him, he wouldn't be here anymore.

Which was nonsense, Dean didn't need anyone to spell it out to him.

Dad wouldn't come back.

Not that he wouldn't come back to Dean , period. Of course he would, eventually, but he wouldn't come back _here_. The house, it seemed, was a constant reminder – to both of them, of weakness and pain and a family-reunion that was too short lived to heal the ache in both John's and Dean's hearts.

Time to move on.

Dean started packing. He didn't have many things he wanted to bring, never had had many possessions he'd cherished enough to keep. One, of course, was the amulet Sam had given him all those years ago – another one the leather jacket John had handed down to Dean on his sixteenth birthday. Other than that everything Dean wanted to remember, wanted to keep, he kept inside his head – or his heart.

He'd leave behind everything that reminded him of what had happened here – like the hilarious pair of pants his Dad had bought him, for example, or the hated crutches, even though he still felt a bit uneasy about completely abandoning their support. But he was all about clean cuts now.

Once he'd loaded everything he owned into his car, he was momentarily lost again.

Silence – his biggest enemy.

His biggest weakness.

It was starting to get late already, but he'd still be able to make it a couple of town away, if he got to moving right now…

He made one last round of the house – just to make sure he'd gotten everything he'd need, relinquished every last proof that he'd ever been here – save for the clothes and the crutches, that was, but those things wouldn't be brought in connection with either him or his father.

He stopped at the table, briefly, fingers brushing over the etched in words of childish hope from his brother, the only evidence of them ever staying here, but neither he nor obviously his Dad had found the courage to remove them.

'Sam + Dean W.'

Here, at least, they would be united for eternity.

And then Dean left.

He didn't bother leaving behind any note to his father, telling him that he'd gone, where'd he'd be. He knew he'd be meeting up with his father again when John saw it fit. A couple of weeks from now Dean's phone would ring, his Dad being all business, that slightly distracted tone of voice suggesting that he was working on something as he spoke with his son, giving him some coordinates to meet up at.

Most likely, John wouldn't even ask if Dean was alright again.

It wasn't because he didn't care – but Dean had never given his father reason to not trust him. He'd told his father he'd be fine, so he'd be fine. John wouldn't have to worry about him on top of everything else.

The first steps away from the house felt like he was walking through molasses, his legs carrying him onwards with apparent reluctance. But every step got easier. By the time he'd reached the Impala, he thought he detected a spring to his steps, despite the still prominent limp, a lightness that had been strangely absent for far too long now.

The moment he slipped behind the wheel of his car, he shed the last bit of doubt that he was doing the right thing here.

Back on the road, moving forward.

It was the only life Dean consciously remembered. It was the only way he _knew_ how to be.

Sam was safest where he was right now, tucked away from the hunt, right where he'd always wanted to be.

And Dean was sure that he himself was right where he _needed_ to be. Dad would call, and Dean would be there, ready to find his place once more.

Maybe, one day, it would turn out to be enough.

**The End.**

_AN:_

_The words of a certain prophet kept repeating themselves inside my head all through writing this last chapter:_

**Endings are hard**

**Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning**

**But endings are impossible**

**You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can**

**The fans are always gonna bitch**

**There's always gonna be holes**

**And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something – I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass**

**No doubt, endings are hard**

**But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?**

_AN2_

_I can't believe this is over. God, it's been a long, long road. _

_Thank you all so, so much for travelling it with me. I've been a pain, I know, my insecurities are sickening - and because of that I'm all the more thankful that you guys didn't give up on me._

_I don't know if this ending is what you expected, or wanted – or if it's any good at all. __What I do know is, that I've never worked harder for a story, invested more of myself.. I'm already very proud of it, even though I still dread the reactions…. _

_I want to thank all those who read, who alerted and favorited (yeah, I know that's not a word…). Special thanks to all those who reviewed and sent me PMs and special _special_ thanks to a couple of you who jumped in as impromptu therapists when I lost my way a couple of times (you know who you are!). The support here is awesome – what a wonderful, great fandom. I'm very proud to be a part of it. _

_Reviews, of course, are much appreciated…just keep in mind that I'm not a native speaker, so some weird wording or phrasing is not because I'm weird (which, ok, I still might be) but because I simply don't know any better. I can assure you that i do spell-check and grammar-check all of my chapters to the best of my knowledge, though, so please keep in mind that I do not intent to make misakes, and that I certainly don't post anything here lightly. If you want to tell me about something that bothers you, please be kind enough to do it in a 'nice' way. _

_I you read this in the near or far future and you want to leave me a note I would still very much appreciate what you thought. No matter when. So feel free to tell me, it's always nice to get responses, even long after finishing a story!_

_I still can't get over the fact how well this story has been received – and I still fear, more than anything to fail now – or fall now…because this has been way too good to be true. I just hope you guys don't figure out now of all times that this wasn't what you've been expecting, after all. _

_There's another story I have finished already – written it before Crows, as a matter of fact. It's probably not very good, but maybe I'll find the courage to post it in a little while. _

_Wish you all the best – hope you enjoy the new season – and definitely hope to hear from you again!_

_Take care_


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